Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
by division-ten
Summary: An anthology collection of the times Anthony J. Crowley, retired demon and occasional slumber party guest, and Aziraphale, forcefully instated Guardian Angel of the downtrodden, get summoned to deal with humanity.
1. Summon a Lemon

"Crowley…"

Aziraphale sat warily, combing though uneven feathers. Since the Little Apocalypse that Wasn't, neither of them could return to their head offices for preening.

**Former **head offices, Aziraphale mentally corrected. And it wasn't like he particularly enjoyed Ezekiel's rough treatment of his scapulars anyway.

Crowley said the only thing he missed was the bath of boiling sulphur to remove parasites. He could tolerate the smell if only to enjoy a proper hot tub of water[1]. One of Hell's most irritating features was that faucets were leaky, inconsistent, and exactly the temperature you **weren't **hoping for.

Right now, though, he was stretched out to his absolute limit, half asleep, wing twitching in Aziraphale's face as the angel frowned with a squirt bottle filled with oil.

"Stay still, Crowley," Aziraphale demanded. "Every time you hit me with a wing it takes…"

**Longer**.

Aziraphale made a small O with his mouth and smiled lightly, batting at Crowley's primaries.

He didn't mind giving his partner in crime more attention. Doubly so if Crowley returned the-

There was suddenly a loud popping sound, as air was sucked inward to the space occupied by Crowley not a moment earlier, leaving Crowley's trousers, with no Crowley in them, flattening on Aziraphale's lap. It took Aziraphale a solid ten seconds of sheer disbelief for him to realize his friend was no longer in the bookshop's backroom.

"Fuck."

* * *

"Fuck."

Anathema almost dropped the kettle. Almost. She was a witch after all, and a 4 meter black snake suddenly appearing on her sofa might not have been normal, but it wasn't out of the realm of possibility.

No, it was the fact that the snake had cursed in an oddly familiar voice, and was now curling in on itself, hissing irritably. "What do you want?" it- no, he- asked the air, swiveling its head.

"C…**Crowley**?"

The snake coiled inwards on the loveseat, tilting his head sideways to look at her with one eye.

"Prophecy girl?"

"**Anathema**."

"Yes, yes," he tutted, annoyed. "Why in blue blazes did you summon a demon? Be glad I'm the closest one I guess. And… oh, shit, get me your phone."

* * *

Crowley reeled off the digits for the phone in the back room of Aziraphale's shop, the one that was so unlisted even solicitors using random-number dialers couldn't actually ring it. [2]

Crowley's flat and cell were two numbers that connected without question. Anathema's… maybe not.

There was one ring, then two, then…

"If the person on the other end of this line isn't a man by Anthony J Crowley… well," Aziraphale said, with the sweetest of politeness, belying the fury of a thousand dying suns.

"Angel, I'm jussssst fine," Crowley said, Anathema holding her cell phone out and on speaker for him.

Crowley could hear the angel sigh, not just the sound, but his entire corporation relax like a weight had been lifted.

"You're…. oh, goodness me."

"**Good **hassss nothing to do with it," Crowley sulked. "Thissss damn witch ssssummoned me."

Crowley swore he could see Aziraphale narrow his eyes in thinly veiled fury. "Put him or her on for me."

"Hello Mr. Fell," Anathema said, a slight hesitation to her voice. "I apologize for interrupting something important. I'm not sure how it happened. I was just making tea, and… well. Crowley is on my sofa and I might have accidentally made him a snake. I'll have to consult Agnes's writings to see how to turn him-"

Aziraphale lightened considerably. "My girl, no worry! None at all. You didn't turn him into a snake I'm sure."

"Ssssshe sssssummoned me!" Crowley squawked, irate. "I'm powerlesssss until we settle the termsss of the bargain."

"But I didn't summon you, or **anyone **for that matter," Anathema said, half pleading but equally half matter of fact.

"Yeah, well, you're a powerful witch," Crowley muttered, taking stock of the living room, trying to see if she'd drawn him over by accident. He followed his eyes between a few haphazard, but unlit candles, that would absolutely make a fine summoning circle of the whole room if they were active. Crowley flicked his tongue and didn't even taste a trace of burnt beeswax.

"When'ssss the last time you lit all those candles?"

"Any of them or all at once?"

"All."

"Never, usually just two or three when the electricity goes out." [3]

Crowley would have frowned if his snake form allowed it. Anathema was a strong witch- if she really, really, **really **wanted him there, the unlit circle might have actually been enough. But it didn't seem like she'd even been thinking of him, so… Adam, perhaps?

Aziraphale seemed to come to the same conclusion independently of Crowley.

"Anathema, my dear, you wouldn't happen to be able to go down to the Young's residence and check on Adam for us, would you? I'll come down to Tadfield myself and meet you all there, but it will take an hour or so on the bus. More if there's traffic out of London." The last sentence was light, and also directed right at a certain black snake formerly in charge of messing with a particular orbital motorway around the city.

"Of course I can," Anathema said, nodding. "Let me just make sure Crowley's warm enough. Old cottage like this has a bit of a draft."

Crowley agreed, having looped up in a tight pile to prevent being chilled. Anathema put a purple fabric log in the oven, gathering up blankets.

"Won't so much good, I don't make my own body heat," he grumbled.

"That's what the heating pad's for, silly. Just needs a few more minutes."

Crowley poked his head out, and tasted the air with his tongue. "Dried lavender in it."

"I didn't take you much for a plant person."

"You consort with witches for a couple millennia…" Crowley lied. She and Newt had only seen the inside of Aziraphale's shop a few times, never his flat.

Anathema laughed. "Bark of willow fine and all that."

"Do we have guests?" Newt's voice wafted in from the bedroom, along with the sounds of flapping fabric. Crowley realized that the sound he'd heard earlier must have been their shower.

"Crowley popped in for a visit," Anathema clarified, specifically avoiding any mention of the **state **he'd popped in. [4]

"Oh, was just thinking about him. Hello Crowley! Could ask you for a favor if you've got a mo'."

Newt then shuffled in the main room, towel turbaned up on his head.

And promptly passed out when he looked at the sofa.

* * *

Newton Pulsifer woke, lying on an old rug on the cold floor, draped in a few blankets with a soft pillow underhead.

And a large snake looped lazily on his stomach and legs, partially coiled around an arm-sized purple lavender scented heated sachet.

"You summoned me."

Newt made a high pitched whine and made to move, but the snake twisted around on top of him was plenty heavy to keep him firmly in place [5].

"I… what?" Newt squeaked out, and he swore the snake whined out a sigh.

"**You**. Not Adam. Between Bookworm's innate witchiness and your desire to call me here, well, here I am."

Newt's eyes widened, finally realizing the voice was coming from the massive reptile. "**Crowley**?!"

"In the flesh. **A **flesh. Some designation of flesh. Thanks for that, comes with calling a demon over. You get their aspect till we make a proper pact."

Newt passed out again.

* * *

"I… I summoned a demon." Newt sat on the sofa, clutching a mug of cocoa while Anathema sat opposite, Crowley wrapped around her for warmth while the pad was reheating in their tiny oven.

Aziraphale, unless he was stuck in aforementioned traffic, would be round in ten or twenty minutes time. Too bad he didn't have a cell phone of his own. Crowley had half a mind to stick a Bluetooth tracker on his angel just in case.

"You did. Don't go thinking you need Beelzebub to clean your house or you'll have a bad day, let alone century," Crowley muttered irritably. "What in the blue blazes were you thinking about anyway? You must have been wanting to see me really badly to pull me into a half- done circle that's not even yours."

Newt went red. "S-Sorry. I forget you and Mr. Fell aren't exactly… erm. Normal."

Crowley took mock offense. "Ahem. We are plenty normal, thank you. What we aren't is human. Don't forget the difference."

"Er, yes, well. It's not like I haven't thought about you or him before. Why'd I summon you now?"

"You tell me, Pulsifer. What'd you do different this time so I can make sure you don't again?"

Newt went white. "What, so you eat my soul if I pull you here again?"

"What? No, why the Hell would I…? Idiot, no, that's not even close to my style. I just don't like being yanked out like this. Not unless there's an honest-to-Someone emergency. Then, yes, do it on purpose."

Newt relaxed a bit. "I really'd rather not go to Hell after all this."

"Oh, they don't like me much down there. Not anymore. So if you're consorting with me specifically, I doubt that'll happen."

Newt loosened up a hair more, but not all the way, and Crowley looked at him sideways.

"'Fraid of snakes, Pulsifer?"

"Most humans would be, if there was one four times the size of them a few inches away."

Crowley slowly wriggled forward and moved along the sofa back until he was eye to eye with Newt. "I don't bite."

"You swallow whole."

"Yeeeeeeah, well, I guess that was supposed to be reassuring, Mister Herpetologist." Newt cautiously reached his hand out, still feeling like the snake in front of him was some sort of mass hallucination, and Crowley was just hanging out somewhere nearby throwing his voice.

"What?" Crowley asked, tilting his head slightly. "I did say I wouldn't bite."

"I… I wanted to make sure you were real."

"Ever the skeptic," Crowley replied, and Newt swore the snake smiled before it pushed a bit further forward, bumping his head into Newt's outstretched hand. "Real enough?"

"Er, I, um," Newt sputtered. "Yes."

Crowley dipped backwards and slunk back around Anathema. "So. What exactly were you doing before I arrived. Precise as you can."

"Well, er, I was in the shower, and thinking. As one does," Newt stuttered.

"Yes, I say most people think in the shower. And many other times besides."

"Er, yes, well. I was thinking about Dick Turpin."

"**Who**?!"

"Not who, **what**," Anathema clarified, holding back a laugh. "Newt's car."

"The blue Wasabi parked outside?" Crowley asked, tilting his head to see out the front window. The thing was in a pretty sorry state. [6]

"Go on," Crowley insisted. He was starting to reel off a few assumptions in his head.

"Well, you've got a car way way older than mine and it's in quite fantastic shape, really, so, well…"

"Spit it out, Newt."

"Er, yes, right. I was thinking what I could possibly bribe you with to come out and look at my car. Since there's no mechanic that will touch him unless I tow it all the way to London."

Crowley sighed out. It wasn't where he expected things to go, but now, at least, he had an answer.

"I hope you understand that between your little squeeze's magic ," Crowley drawled, squeezing Anathema just a little to emphasize, "and you coming up with the terms to **bargain with a demon**, you **summoned **one."

All Newt could bring himself to stutter was one tiny "Oh, dear."

* * *

"Don't leave the circle," Crowley admonished, once they heard hard rapping at the door. He raised his voice a little. "'Ziraphale?"

"Oh yes, are you all right? I'm feeling some extremely occult vibes coming from the inside."

"Just an active circle, angel, since these two are in it is advisable they don't leave. If you can let yourself in, it'd be better for everyone."

The lock sprung on its own and Aziraphale squinted, poking his head inside. "Well, I am glad I brought you your clothes."

* * *

"So."

Crowley flicked his tongue an inch from Newt's face. Aziraphale had perched himself on a windowsill, just outside the barrier of the circle, as the magic kept him firmly out. Since it wasn't actually man-made with sigils, Crowley couldn't smudge or douse anything to break it either.

"You called me here for an exchange. Newt, you have to finish what you started. I can't break myself out of this one."

Newt sputtered. "I… my car isn't worth my soul!"

"Your **soul**?" Crowley laughed. "The blue blazes am I going to do with your soul? Eat it? I barely eat human food as it is. That's Aziraphale's job."

"Oh thank God," Newt breathed out, ignoring the latter half of his statement. "But I have to give you something of equal value, don't I? There's only two things in life I really value and that's Anathema and my car."

"Sounds familiar," Aziraphale said slyly.

"Shut up, angel," Crowley hissed, before pulling his attention back on Newt. "Ignoring the tow fee, how much would it cost you to get it fixed at a shop?"

"Couple hundred, probably. If it's operational."

"Well, I'm going to bend the rules in your favor. What's the lowest you think it would cost?"

"I'm pretty sure the antifreeze is leaking into the engine compartment, so…"

"Lowballing the cost of replacing a late '80's engine and antifreeze tanks…" Crowley muttered. "I'd wager with labor it's around £450 if they don't try and upsell you. Now, normally, when you're making a pact with a demon, you're right. That car's your soul. But I also have a say in what this exchange is worth. And… Az? You said something about needing a witch's help banishing something from the shop didn't you?"

"Oh, my, yes. I was planning on calling you the other day but I didn't know if breaching the subject would be apropo."

"You take notes, got it in writing somewhere?"

"On my to-do list next to the register."

Crowley grumbled something about keeping the real occult stuff in the backroom, thank you, and brightened. "So, an exchange has to be legit, Newt. I can't just say, 'oh, an hour of your company's worth £450, there's equivalence, we're done.' But it just so happens that idiot genuinely needs your collective help. I fix your car, if Anathema is a thrall to Aziraphale for an equivalent rate. A thrall of Aziraphale's is as good as one of mine."

"A thrall? Like possessed?" Newt shrieked.

"Ugh, no, the name's a formality. An assistant, then, if you're going to be freaked out. I don't need you passing out a third time this morning."

"Newt, take the deal and get your car fixed," Anathema groaned. "I can work in a bookshop a few hours."

"Oh, goody, I'll make sure to have a catered lunch as a thank you!" Aziraphale commented.

Crowley groaned. "Don't tip it more in their favor while I'm doing this, angel. Any idea how much bending I'm doing to not muck this up?"

* * *

"Do I have to?" Newt asked.

"You think I would make you if you don't need to? You're not a cultist I'm trying to swindle here. You're a…"

"A friend," Aziraphale finished for him, looking up from his paperback.

"Don't get all sappy on me," Crowley grumbled. "Unless you want me bound to this cottage till you die, yes. Just a drop's enough."

"But I'm not a virgin?" Newt almost pleaded, looking aghast at the kitchen knife Anathema was holding out for him.

"Oh **goody**. Congrats. Doesn't matter. The term virgin in this thing is bollocks anyway. Meant someone unwed, not someone who did the do."

"O-oh,"

"Soon as you're done and I can enter, I'll heal it up right- quick," Aziraphale said cheerily.

"Just cut your finger," Anathema groaned out. "Don't be a baby I get a period every-"

"Fine! Fine!" Newt reached out and poked his ring finger with the knife, letting a single drop of blood well up on it. Crowley leaned forward and lapped it up with his forked tongue.

"Contract made in blood, thank Someone," Crowley breathed out. "Ziraphale, circle should be broken now."

"Indeed, it is," Aziraphale admitted, pressing against air and feeling no resistance.

"What do I have to do so this doesn't happen again?" Anathema asked.

"Why are you still a snake?" Newt questioned simultaneously.

"Trash one of your candles, still might not be enough though. And I'm still a snake because I don't think you'd like a naked man-shaped person on your couch."

* * *

"Well, Pulsifer, I can say with confidence I know exactly what's wrong with your car."

Crowley was immensely thankful Aziraphale came with a duffel bag full of the clothes he'd left behind, and was now freshly showered, changed, and flat on his back on a plastic dolly under -ugh- Dick Turpin. [7]

"Oh? What's wrong?" Newt peered down, looking at the undercarriage, as most people do who want to help but have absolutely no skill in basic car repair.

"It's **shit**."

* * *

Frankly, Crowley should have charged him more. Enough more that one would consider the car a lost cause as it would almost cost as much to just buy a replacement. But he knew two things- a demon had to make an equivalent deal based on what knowledge they had, and it was either Newt's assumed worth of the car, or it was the few hundred pounds Crowley assumed from a description of the problem alone. [8]Even lowballing it was, well, lowballed. It wasn't just the antifreeze, the entire mechanics of the car was straight up shot. It shouldn't have run at all for a year.

In the end, it **had** come down to Adam. In the same way he'd brought back Crowley's Bentley, he'd willed Newt's Wasabi back to reality, too. Just… the Wasabi hadn't been fixed, only willed into use.

Crowley took care of his Bentley meticulously since then, so there was no way his beloved car was falling apart. Not on his watch. But the Wasabi didn't have a supernatural entity giving it the same level of constant care.

Adam must have forgotten about it. Eventually, the spark wore out, and there it was.

A wreck barely hanging on.

Crowley frowned. He could miracle what he needed to fix the car, but he was adamant about doing the repairs themselves by hand. Far less likely to come back loose when he wasn't paying attention to it, and then Newt would be back to square one.

"How much longer, Crowley?" Aziraphale asked, sitting on a gingham picnic blanket under a nearby tree. The sun was starting to set.

"I've never worked on a car like this before, Crowley admitted, the top half of him shoved into the bonnet. "And I can't stop until I've filled my end of the bargain. A deal is a deal."

"That's dreadful," Aziraphale said, going pale. "You are required to do as you're told if you're summoned like this?"

"Er, yeah and no, angel. Terms of the deal, remember? I'm doing this fair because it's, well, it's them. When a cultist summoned me in the old days, I always worked in loopholes. It's what my kind did."

"For example?"

"A cult asks me to make them supremely powerful. I could… turn them into ants. They can lift many times their own body weight."

"Oh my."

"I'd turn them back after the deal was done, angel. You know me. I'm not that type. But it was enough to scare people. Less summoning nowadays, and most of them can't do it right. Magic's pretty dried up among humans now, anyway." Crowley swore, and wiped his brow. "Nowadays I'll get the occasional slumber party, and that either devolves into a light scare 'till one of the kiddos breaks the circle and I can leave with no deal done, or it turns into some kinda therapy session and they willingly break me out after little Suzannah or Jayden bawls her eyes out complaining about her mother's drinking problem."

Aziraphale giggled. "You've always been good with kids."

"Shaddup."

"Could an angel be summoned like this?" Azirapahle asked. "I don't think I ever have, though I've been compelled to go places."

"We're of the same stock, I don't see why not. Maybe the rules are different… fuck."

"Are you all right?"

"Fine, angel. I'm just… ugh. Well, I **have **to fix this car and it's almost like it doesn't want to be."

"It is an extremely poorly made budget vehicle."

"That's not the problem, the problem is the damn thing loves Glasses too much. It's afraid I'm going to mishandle it even though I'm doing my damnedest not to."

"Oh, Lord, heal this car?" Aziraphale sing-songed.

"Drown in a lake," Crowley whined. "But not enough to discorporate. I don't think your former offices are going to be so easily handing over a new body."

"Just have to share yours then," Aziraphale said without thought. Crowley went red to his ears and shoved his upper body further into the engine block.

Aziraphale walked over and put a nervous hand on the vehicle.

"Angel, if you know what's good for you, you're going to stay exactly where you are," Crowley growled. "Do not move."

Aziraphale kept his hand on the car but leaned forward enough to peer. Crowley swore three more times, and worked quickly with a torque wrench to fix a number of things beyond Aziraphale's comprehension. He'd never really read up on cars. There wasn't a need with Crowley and his own vast base of technological knowledge.

"Can you do me a favor?"

"Anything Crowley, just ask."

"Are we visible from the road?"

"No, the small hill and trees block the way, are you going to use a miracle?"

"Can you raise a wing and shield the sun? The sunset's getting in my eyes and I don't do bright-"

Before Crowley could even finish his thought, white feathers obscured the red ball of flame that was the rapidly setting sun. "Better?"

"Much."

* * *

"You don't want to drive into London on a Saturday night," Anathema said, laying out four plates on their cramped table. "Stay the night, Newt and I can come with you tomorrow and I can hold my end of the bargain."

"Ah, yeah, you didn't need to right away," Crowley said, stretching out on the sofa like he was still a massive snake. "I didn't give a timeframe."

"And I'd like to close this little loop. I know you're not going to come eat our souls- not that I have one anyway," Anathema continued. [9] "But it would make me feel better at the very least."

"Don't fancy consorting with demons?" Crowley asked, eyebrow quirked.

"If said demon is you, no." Anathema brandished her ladle like a pointer. "I just don't like owing a debt to friends. Come, now, you might not eat, but Newt should be returning with some wine in a minute or two. It's the least we can do."

"Ngk," Crowley spluttered. "Wholly unnecessary."

"Come, dear, lets at least help Anathema move that awfully heavy looking pot onto a trivet on the table, shall we?"

"Fine."

And so it was.

* * *

1 Or water adjacent liquid.

2 That's because the phone was so, so old it wasn't actually hooked up to the modern phone lines. It still made and received calls just fine, clear as day, to any number it deemed worthy of reaching.

3 It is, without question, Newt's fault the electricity goes out.

4 Or exactly how accurate the turn of phrase was.

5 That had actually been at Anathema's suggestion, because she knew he'd probably hurt himself in a panic like a rabbit. Not that Newt needed to know Crowley now knew that.

6 Though that's the Wasabi's general state, anyway. And not Newt's specifically, the brand of car as a whole.

7 Crowley's groan, not the author's.

8 Which would have led to Anathema being taken, not Newt's soul, because of demons liked one thing it was kicking someone while they were down.

9 She did have one, actually, and unless she really really screwed up later in life, it wasn't going down the escalators, ye olde ideas of witches notwithstanding.


	2. Summon a Serpent

Crowley, for the first time in his life, finally felt how Aziraphale did in the passenger seat of his Bentley. It wasn't that Newt was a bad driver- far the opposite- but it was the first time in as long as Crowley could remember being in a private vehicle where he wasn't in charge of it.

And the Wasabi still hated Crowley's guts.

Crowley winced, and rolled down the window, trying to get air. It wouldn't budge.

"I bring your vehicle back from death and this is how it repays me?" Crowley whined.

"Now, dear, it's just worried. Remember, Adam used occult energy to bring it back. Once bitten and all that," Aziraphale cooed, running a hand on the interior paneling. It seemed to do the trick, and let Crowley roll the window down for a crack of fresh air.

Newt choked on his own saliva. "Dick Turpin is alive?"

"No more or less than we are, my boy," Aziraphale answered, looking serenely out the window as Newt turned towards Soho.

Newt made an incomprehensible noise as he processed that statement.

"Doesn't answer my question," he admitted meekly as he circled, looking for a parking spot.

"Ah, sorry. Park there."

"It's a loading zone, I'd get towed."

Anathema smiled softly. "**Whose **loading zone is it?"

Newt buried his bright red face into the wheel as he slotted the car into the space. Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and a permit appeared on the Wasabi's dashboard.

"Should be tip-top. Come in, then."

Newt exhaled, his face scrunched up in the universal signal of 'this shite is far over my head', and followed the angel into his bookshop.

* * *

"Wow." Anathema stood wide eyed under the dome at the center of the shop. "Incredible."

Aziraphale puffed up like a particularly proud songbird. He knew his collection was nothing short of amazing, but it was nice to get an outsider's reminder from time to time.

"Yes, well! Let's get to work, shall we?"

"Er, nrk, right," Crowley admitted, scuffing his shoe back and forth on the floorboards. "Pulsifer's payment-by-proxy. Book girl's to be Aziraphale's thrall 'till his problem's taken care of… or deemed too difficult a task for a mortal witch. Can't force you to be bound forever if it's out of your expertise," he added, with a small smile. "Hell's got all- okay, most of- the lawyers. Gotta be exact wording here."

Aziraphale nodded, following along. In his millennia of being with Crowley this was the first time he'd actually witnessed the process of a summoned deal. If it were any other demon, Aziraphale would have shrugged off the words as a blatant lie. Crowley's word though? That he could take at face value.

"I've… er. I don't think I've ever had a **thrall**under me before," Aziraphale admitted. "What do I do?"

"I'll handle the specifics," Crowley groaned, waving his hand. "And done."

Newt took a staggering step back. "I thought you said you weren't possessing her!"

Anathema blinked. She didn't feel any different. Well, she could feel Crowley's occult aura wrapping around her, but that was like a downy blanket during a late fall thunderstorm. Warm, comforting, with a slight aftertaste of ozone. He certainly wasn't inside her- either possession or ordering her around like a puppet. "Hm?" she asked. "I'm not possessed. Feels… kind of cozy actually."

"That's cause you still technically have free will," Crowley shrugged, speaking unusually slowly and deliberately. "If I were to give an order, though, you'd want to carry it out. Which I **won't**. I am going to go nap. The only order I'm giving you, Anathema, is that you have my express permission to ignore anything that sounds like a demand. And said order supersedes anything else I say."

Pulsifer visibly relaxed. "You could have made her do anything," he hissed at him.

"**Could**. **Won't**. Anathema, go lock the front door."

She smiled and crossed her arms. "Nope."

"See?" Crowley said, splaying his arms wide.

"How will I know when I'm done?" Anathema asked.

"How did Pulsifer know I did something?" Crowley replied, answering her question with another. "Check a mirror."

Anathema pulled out her cell phone, using the front facing camera to take a peek. "Oh, that would do it," she said, laughing a little, peering back at her reflection with golden snake eyes. "Mind if I send a photo of this to Mami?"

"Do what you want," Crowley said, waving a hand, yawning loudly for emphasis. "If some rando sees your camera history, they'll just think it's a Snapchat filter or something."

"A what?" Aziraphale asked, blinking stars from his eyes, feeling unusually happy. Not that happiness wasn't his baseline state- he was an angel after all, and he started from there before moving on to other emotions like anger or sadness- but he felt exceptionally good for a dreary Sunday morning. Maybe it was the thought that Anathema might finally help him with his faerie problem in the shop, or some side effect of having her as his thrall, even if she was just given permission to ignore orders.

"'Ziraphale, don't keep them hanging around all day!" Crowley boomed at him with a wicked grin.

"Ah, yes, right, let's!" Aziraphale said, chipper, clapping his hands. "Let me find some butterfly nets."

"Nets?" Anathema asked, trying to stifle a giggle.

"Er, see, I have a bit of a brownie infestation."

"The dessert or the Girl Scout?" Anathema asked.

"What's a Girl Scout?" Newt cut in, confused.

"They're the American version of Girl Guides," Crowley drolled. "And neither. The fairy. Aziraphale's probably too- eugh- nice to get them to leave and I assume they're scared of me, since I haven't actually spotted one."

"You do spend an awful lot of time around the shop as a massive snake, dear. But yes, that's the gist of the problem. I'm far too nice, and since they haven't stolen anything, I can't possibly be mad at them. But they will **not stop cleaning**and some of my books are too fragile to be touched without gloves, faerie or otherwise!"

"Let me get this straight," Anathema said, trying and failing to stifle a wave of laughter. "You need me for magical pest control **because your shop is too clean**?"

Aziraphale nodded enthusiastically, not aware of or simply ignoring her tone. "Precisely!"

Newt just sunk his hands into his hair. "Really? This is the problem?"

"Yours could have been solved by just getting a new car," Crowley replied shrugging. "Oh, and 'Zira? Before you start I want some coffee. **Black**. And I'm surprised you haven't offered anything to the people who actually need food. Get them something to eat."

"But you said-" Aziraphale started, before he shook his head and hurried to the kitchenette hidden in the back area. "Never mind. Sometimes I just do not comprehend you. Newton? Anathema? Can I get you anything?"

Newt glared and hissed at Crowley. "You're not going to tell him, are you?"

Crowley shrugged, grinning, as he vaulted over a sofa to get comfortable the only way he knew how, stretching out on his stomach, before sighing, wiggling a bit, and coiling up as a snake.

"A thrall of Aziraphale's is as good as one of mine," Crowley muttered into his own coils.

* * *

"So, um, Aziraphale." Anathema looked down at her feet, trying not to make eye contact with the angel. She'd be the first to admit he went overboard on the offerings of scones, jam, and cream, with coffee and no less than ten kinds of tea, though how much of it was his own mother hen nature and how much of it was Crowley's demand she couldn't tell.

If Crowley was just going to go to sleep after Aziraphale gave him a steaming mug of coffee (which the snake had used less like a beverage and more like a portable heat source), why not give the order to ignore orders to the second person affected by Newt's accidental summoning?

Slyly, she peeked up to look Aziraphale in the face. Crowley's golden eyes did suit him, in a completely different way than they suited the demon. On Aziraphale they were kind, soft- less a snake and more a cat's, with his linen coat and peeling velvet vest turning the visage from frightening to merely otherworldly. Anathema bit her lip- she wasn't going to be the one to bring it up. "Okay. What do we do to trap this thing?"

* * *

"Fuck!" Anathema screamed. She'd lured a brownie out with a plate of biscuits and promise that her house in Tadfield was extremely dirty (and honestly, if a fairy was hell-set on cleaning, she wasn't one to say no).

The brownie skittered into the aether- its mop of teal hair gone in the minute crack between bookshelves- when the shop's door slammed open on its hinges, startling the occupants inside.

"Blast!" Aziraphale cried out, dropping the tea tray. Thankfully the china had the innate sense to not upset their owner by doing something so base as cracking, so the only problem really was a few errant dropped biscuits. Hopefully the brownie would see the mess and poke back out after whatever the ruckus on the lower level of the shop sorted itself out.

Aziraphale peered over the upper railing to see a woman- no, a girl, but not a very young child, he was never very good at guessing ages- pant against a wall, eyes wide, before scampering down into the stacks.

Aziraphale recognized that kind of posture. She wasn't here to buy anything, thank Someone. She was here seeking assistance of some sort, and that was the kind of patron Aziraphale was actually comfortable with.

"Leave the mess, Anathema, it might get our little nuisance to come back out of hiding. Brownies do hate disorder."

"No wonder they like to clean your shop," Anathema said under her breath.

"I'm not daft, you know," Aziraphale hissed at her, brow creasing.

Xxx

Anette was having a nice day- not amazing, the grey sky certainly prevented that, with dire threats of rain- or at least she was, until the two older teens spied her.

Her shitty ex and one of his shittier friends.

It wasn't even ten in the morning yet, and not much was even open on the dreary Sunday in Soho. But the bookshop had its lights on, and there was no closed sign hanging, so she took a chance, yanking on the door.

Thank God, she thought, just as the rain started outside. Unfortunately, that meant her pursuers would also likely be seeking shelter, so, once she'd gotten her breath back, she stormed through the shop, finding a good place to make herself scarce. She'd considered for a hot second to find a book to buy as apology for invading, but a quick scan of the bookmarks with string and prices dangling over the spines made her think twice.

She'd just have to hope an apology for the intrusion was enough a payment.

Anette slipped further back until she reached an ancient fireplace roaring in the side corner. Large blankets crisscrossed over the back of a well-worn sofa and she tugged for one, to wrap in by the fire and hopefully be unnoticed for a little while.

"Oy, Pulsifer I was using that!" a voice yelped as she tried to pull one out.

"S-Sorry Mister Bookshop Person!" she cried, letting go as a giant black snake's head popped out over the back of the sofa.

It almost looked like it wanted to say something, but the beast just hissed. An awkward looking young man hurried over to the seating area, waving his arms like a traffic cop struck by static.

"He's safe, I promise," the man squaked, attempting to reassure her.

She stared at the snake a solid thirty seconds, then the man, then glanced back at the snake as more footsteps drew near.

"C-Crowley?" she asked it curiously.

* * *

Aziraphale was a moment from intervening when the girl-child stuttered out Crowley's name. Nobody had said it, and, unless he'd changed back, he was still a giant snake.

Crowley's words from the day before bounced around in his head. He did get summoned from time to time, mostly by children on accident.

Aziraphale held up a hand to stop Anathema behind him, and waited behind a shelf. He'd step in as needed, erase the past few minutes of her memory if absolutely necessary, but this was a seen of his friend he'd never actually seen before. With Armageddon becoming a distant memory, he was starting to become something very, well, **un**-becoming of an angel.

**Curious**.

* * *

Crowley shook the last of his drowsiness out- internally cursing the fact that his serpent form didn't have eyelids to blink out. The girl was older than last he'd seen her- late teens if he had to hazard a guess, but he was summoned so infrequently he could usually remember the faces.

It was 2012, when Warlock was four. Crowley has just put the toddler to bed, heels clicking on the parquet flooring as she hurried herself (Crowley's relationship with pronouns was as loose as he was with clothes, he, she, and they were used as needed, removed and replaced when not) back to her own quarters for a good soak in a hot tub.

It had been early December and she could feel her scales ache under her corporation. A winter shed. She'd find a way to sneak the snakeskin out to Aziraphale's hut in the morning. He actually knew how to do some cobbling and tailoring (how else did he keep his stupid Victorian era clothing from falling apart after nearly two centuries?) and Crowley could use a nice pair of snakeskin boots. Or a belt. Or a big handbag. Or maybe all of the above and more, if she could get off her skin in one clean shed.

She'd just settled down in a hot soak, stretched out and transformed into her constrictor form, when she'd felt the pull. And suddenly, soaked, eyes milked over to start her shed, and thoroughly itchy, she writhed around on a wooden floor.

Or he. Crowley's feminine voices never commanded the same attention his masculine ones did, which annoyed him to no end.

At least he could enjoy the kids' screams for a moment before he barked at them to put him back.

"Sasha, look, the poor thing's in shed."

Crowley coiled inward, the voice couldn't have been older than nine or ten. Likely a girl, though prepubescent voices were sometimes a coin toss.

"See? It's eyes are all clouded over. It can't see us."

Crowley hissed. "A right herpetologist, we are," he grumbled. "You just ruined my bath."

"I didn't know snakes bathed," another voice said, annoyed and almost condescending.

"Well, he's a demon snake, Jessie," the first voice snipped matter of factly. "And there's lots of snakes that like the water, anyways."

Crowley uncoiled and thumped against something solid. Edge of the circle, probably, considering he tasted a mild crackle of ozone. The kids had made a pretty big one, he had at least some room to navigate. He tasted the air. Seven people, probably all kids. The floor under him felt amazing on his itchy scales- he was on carpet.

"Okay, first off, who draws a summoning circle on carpet? Your parents are going to kill you."

"You're not?" one of them asked, timid. None of them had actually moved or left the room. Half were scared, he could taste the adrenaline, but the other her half were just curious.

**Humans**. Their desire to know would be the death of them and Crowley wouldn't have it any other way.

"Not my style," Crowley replied, rubbing his face in the carpet to help peel his skin. "And you're helping me out big time, so I can't be too mad."

"Do you need a hand, Mister Demon?" Whoever the initial girl was, she not only had no fear, she seemed to be **excited**by having a gargantuan snake in her presence.

"You'd break the circle and set me free."

"I would? It's part of the rug."

"You have a rug with a demon summoning circle permanently designed in it?" Crowley deadpanned.

"Mom's a big anime fan. It's from one of her shows," another voice piped. The kid was one of the ones that had been scared, emphasis on the past tense.

Crowley made a long noncommittal noise for a moment before addressing the room.

"Got any pumice?"

* * *

Anette held out a small grey rock as Crowley looped around the back of the sofa, looking bemused, still deciding if he wanted to open his mouth. "Always keep it on me now," she said.

That was enough for him to loosen his own (forked) tongue.

"Pumiccccce," Crowley hissed at her. "I'm not shedding; you can put that away."

"It's more a reminder that that night wasn't just a dream."

"Well, you didn't come in here for nothing, then. Cashing in on that favor I owe you?"

Anette blinked between Crowley and the door. "Asshole ex, twelve o clock. I think he saw me duck in here. How are you even…?" she started, when the tinkle of the bell sounded at the front door.

"Trust now, explain later," Crowley hissed, and Anette nodded. "Pulsifer, can I have some help?"

"You're not harming a-"

"Scaring only, yes or no?"

"Fine." Newt sighed out and put his teacup down on one of the side tables. His eyes stung a moment and he glanced over at a polished banister.

Now everyone had golden eyes. **Joy**.

"'Zira? Book-girl? I know you're on the other shelf. Come here."

Aziraphale's feet guided him next to the sofa, and Crowley lazily stretched out, looping around the angel until he was on him and off the furniture. Aziraphale's shoulders didn't even sag a micron. He might be soft, but he wasn't the guardian of the Eastern Gate for nothing.

"I know I said you could ignore orders, but it'll scare the dipshit more if you follow this one," he hissed, leaning over Aziraphale's neck to whisper in Anathema's ear. She nodded, grinning, making assumptions of what he was about to do.

"Everyone, I want you to repeat whatever I say in the flattest monotone you can when you see this jerk's face. Anette, kid, what's his name?"

"Roland."

"What is this, the fifties?" Crowley shook his head and shouted out. "Oy! Roland! Found your girl! Come to the back, fireplace back here. Nice 'n warm, away from the rain, it is."

* * *

"You're spoiling me," Crowley whined halfheartedly as three sets of hands were helping flake off skin and a fourth was toweling him dry and clean. "Ugh, thanksssss. And if you think you're buttering me up… well… its working, you little cretins. You summoned me and gave me something, so now I owe you."

Technically, it wasn't true- they hadn't made a deal yet so Crowley didn't have to count the impromptu whole-body dermabrasion as payment, but the help was exactly what Crowley needed right now.

Which meant it was worth a hell of a lot to him.

Which meant that, should Hell receive a report on summoning, he wouldn't even need to explain off any major miracles. Summoning exchanges were just considered part of the job, they weren't part of their magic allowances.

The mild annoyance of being pulled from his evening soak was more than mitigated by some idiot slumber party. And the leader girl knew enough about snakes to help him shed away the clouded over eye caps so he could finally see the space they were in.

It was an attic, with streamers, and a discarded Ouija board and Harry Potter decorations.

"Happy birthday, Anette," he said to the air once he'd read off the banner, not yet knowing which one of them was actually the birthday girl. "I'm assuming Griffindor or Slytherin?"

"Slytherin," said the snake-loving girl who knew what she was doing. Her birthday, her (or, more likely, a mutual friend's) house, (because someone else had commented about the rug), her love of magic and snakes suddenly making way more sense.

"Think you're a hair too young for a Hogwarts letter, kiddo."

"Are… we speaking Parseltongue?" she whispered aloud.

"No, and I'm not Nagini," Crowley said quickly, to one girl's relief. "But, as you've probably guessed, I am magical. Least I can do is offer wishes. No tricks. One, you saved me a few hours of agony," he said, relieved, as he shook his tail free of the last of his skin, "and two, and this one's important, see, I don't mess with people on their birthdays. But when I'm done I'm going to need all of you to lift me up and completely off this rug so I can go home. Deal?"

"I… kinda wanted a Hogwarts letter…" Anette sighed out. "Other than that, I don't actually want anything."

Crowley tipped his head. "I was offering to all of you. But if you really don't want anything right now, I can give you an IOU. One free wish at a later date, no strings attached."

Anette looked dejected.

"You… wanna be a witch that badly, huh kiddo? I don't know any, not anymore at least. Last real witch in England died a few centuries back. Bit of a Nutter, if one of my friends is telling the truth. How 'bout this, if I find a real witch, I'll connect you two. Who next? I'm serious here." Crowley rolled around in the carpet, elated to be out of that itchy layer of dead scales. He just needed to remember to bite on the largest piece to drag it back with him before he left.

"Can I have a 3DS? The new one? And… um, the new Professor Layton?" one of the girls asked.

Crowley rolled around a moment, mentally zeroed in on a mom and pop shop just near Aziraphale's bookshop, left pound notes on the counter, and pulled them into the space just in front of him.

"And I paid the shop I took them from," he insisted, nudging them towards her with his head. "Stealing is bad, m'kay?"

He thought back to the shop, wrote himself a receipt, left them the shop copy, and popped the customer copy into her hands. "And proof. But if your mum tries to return it, it'll always appear back in your room, and it won't ever need a recharge. Next?"

The girls looked him over, considering, whispering a little.

"Don't have all night, you imps, I have a day job." The whispering grew louder as the first girl hugged her present.

"You'll keep your promise?" Anette asked, leaning over him on the rug.

"You summoned, one of you cut yourself on the pumice and I tasted blood, you paid me. I have to hold my end of the bargain," Crowley insisted.

Anette lit up, and Crowley felt an odd pull in his chest, and realized how this stupid mass-produced rug had pulled him all the way to… **Swindon**, he assumed, by looking at the bus map Anette had taped on her wall.

Well, he had just found a real witch. Now he just needed to find the girl a friend.

* * *

"Bitch!" Roland called out, finding a group in the back of the shop.

"Yes, Roland?" Crowley said in a deadpanned impersonation of Anette's voice, not opening his mouth but still clear as day. Anathema, Azirapahle and Newt played along, repeating.

Crowley kept himself perfectly still and tried to think of the most serious thing he could think of to keep from laughing. Tax collection. Wool socks. Unbuttered stale toast.

Roland stopped in his tracks to stare at the group.

"Why don't you join us, Roland?"

"Why don't you join us Roland?" the group repeated. The boy looked among them, blank snake-eyed faces even though Crowley could make his eyes, or those of his thralls, look normal to an untrained human eye.

Not that he wanted to here.

"We're hungry, Roland. Why don't you… stay a while? We could have a meal. Our Master hungers."

"We're hungry, Roland. Why don't you… stay a while? We could have a meal. Our Master hungers."

Aziraphale, on this, gently stroked Crowley's head and planted a reverent kiss on it. He'd watched too much theater.

Roland shrieked and stumbled backwards. Crowley discreetly used the end of his tail to press on the backside of Aziraphale's left leg, forcing him to stagger forward. He then did the same on the right, and Aziraphale took the hint to continue to stagger forward slowly, like a man seemingly possessed.

Crowley opened his own mouth, and in his own voice, hissed, "I hunger."

"I hunger," the chorus repeated, stumbling closer as they spoke.

Roland bolted, and a moment later the bell sounded again followed by a slam.

Crowley finally got to break out in laughter. "Okay, that was fun. Anette, Newt, you're clear."

Newt felt his eyes sting again, returning to normal. "I… that was hard!"

"I can't believe you didn't corpse," Anathema admitted. "I'm so proud of you, Newt."

"Madame Tracy could use an assistant with her seances, I hear," Crowley grinned. Marjorie and the Sergeant had gotten a cottage of their own not too far from Anathema and Newt's. Half so Shadwell could keep an eye out for his young charge, and half because the weather really was as perfect as Newt had claimed. And Miz. Potts now had enough of a clientele for her psychic escapades and tarot reading she'd made it her full time profession.

"You did find me a witch! I thought you said there weren't any left in England."

"There weren't," Crowley admitted with a huff, as he gestured to Anathema. "And I didn't mean…" he added, not wanting to explain who Madame Tracy was. "Her name is Anathema and she's **American**, you little occultist."

Aziraphale clapped his hands. "Right. The brownies."

"Crowley, is the man a wizard, then? He's got snake eyes like yours."

Crowley choked a little, disentangling himself from Aziraphale. "I can explain…" he said meekly to Anathema's quiet "busted".

"Dear, I saw them in the teakettle when I put it on. Also, I discovered you can't possess me. Does make a bit of sense, I wasn't directly part of your agreement."

"But you-"

"Did them because I wanted to. More so when I realized you thought I was being ordered."

Anette looked thoroughly lost as Newt and Anathema howled with laughter.

Crowley hid his head under Aziraphale's armpit as the angel attempted to tease him out. "Now, Crowley, who is your friend here?"

Crowley swallowed his pride. "Anette, she summoned me by accident on her ninth birthday. So… sixteen, right? Also, she's a witch."

"I'm a what?"

"How you think she pulled me from the Dowling estate all the way out to **Swindon**?"

"I did what?"

Anathema put an arm around her, and Aziraphale did too. "And I get two witches to help out of all this, dear me, people need to make deals with you more often, Crowley my boy." He nodded with a gentle smile to the younger witch. "Come, Anette, we can explain. I have to reset the brownie traps anyway. Crowley, can you call in for some delivery, dear?"

"But then I need aaaaarms," Crowley whined. "Siri always messes up my commands."

"Your fault on that one, if I recall," Aziraphale said smugly.

"Bassssstard."

"A compliment if there ever were one. Come, Anette, I'm sure Anathema here can show you what to do."

Crowley slunk back on the sofa. "Newt, order delivery."

"I'm not your thrall," he said, only stuttering on the first word, pulling a well of false confidence after Aziraphale's own little trick.

"Bassssstard number two. Fine." Crowley slowly condensed himself back down into something roughly man shaped, as he heard a smug laugh from overhead and felt not one, but two demonic summons being fulfilled simultaneously. He sunk in his chair, reveling in the momentary bliss of finally having them off his chest.

Vaguely, he heard Aziraphale squeal with glee. "Ladies, keep those nets closed and follow me. We can shoo them out the back entrance and I'll write a sigil over the door to keep them out for good."

"That was quick," Crowley said, cracking his neck. "Wonder how much it costs for a bus from Swindon to Tadfield."

"What for?" Newt asked him.

"You got your car fixed, your girlfriend got an apprentice, and two of my outstanding contracts just got cleared."

"After all that, I think I can drive Anathema to pay Anette a visit."

"Oh, and don't worry about the petrol. I fixed your dickhead up the way I did my Bently. He'll never need it."

Newt pinched the fabric of his pants at the knee. "And what do I owe for that?"

"Eh, don't worry, you paid already."

Newt turned white.

"Not your soul, you idiot," Crowley grinned, sweeping his hands towards the two witches with closed nets around two cursing faeries. "The entertainment. Always loved a good bit of theater, me."


	3. Summon an Angel

The five of them had a lovely lunch sprawled in the bookshop, Anette and Anathema exchanged contact information with a promise from the latter to the former for apprenticeship, and all separated ways in the early afternoon.

Aziraphale swept up the biscuit crumbs and carried off the haphazard tea set from the second floor, regarding a lazing Crowley on one of the sofas below. "We have the rest of the day, dear, any plans?"

"Sleep for a week," Crowley grumbled.

Aziraphale considered the stairs for a brief moment, before loosing his wings to flutter down to the lower level. He missed flying for real, but with security cameras just about everywhere in London and a cell phone in every pocket it was hard to go out for a joyride without miracling a lot of things before, during, and after.

Aziraphale's own magic hadn't seemed to wane, he didn't know if he was running on allowances or if Heaven just didn't care. Or if letting him do what he wanted was appeasing him. He didn't want to fuel that fire or find out what happened were he cut off, and neither did Crowley. So, they were much more judicious with magic use. Using their wings or adjusting their own bodies was inherent to them, that never counted. Nor did adjusting their size, or traveling through the phone system, though Azirapahle had only done it once, dragged along by the elated Crowley and nearly separating his true form from his human corporation in the process out of shock.

He shuddered just thinking about it, a few of his coverts fluttering to the ground in a full body shake. He'd sooner chain himself to the roof of the Bentley for a week than another trip through the information system.

But Crowley had used a lot of magic yesterday, miracling up all those auto parts, even if he did assembly by hand, and Aziraphale could see exhaustion on Crowley's whole body.

"You aren't joking," Aziraphale whispered, leaning over Crowley with his wings up and around in a defensive and protective gesture, like a bird of prey guarding its food. He brushed a few strands of hair away from Crowley's face, and tutted. "Shall I put the fire back on? Do you want to curl up as a snake, dear? The shop's closed."

"Mhrk," Crowley mumbled, following with a word he usually never used. "**Food**."

"What, oh, yes, what can I get you?"

"Anything," Crowley said, exasperated, though he didn't elaborate on what he actually needed. "Finishing a contract is always draining, and I just closed two at once. I still owed Anette my half a bargain from nine years ago."

Aziraphale sucked air in and banished his wings. "Will… that be a problem from your miracle usage?"

"What? No. Summoning's a different department. Unlimited miracles, and the paperwork only says who summoned and where. Not what was given and taken. Just… kinda knocks you out for a bit when the file's closed, and I **cleared two at once.**" Crowley replied, emphasizing the last point dramatically with an arm sweep along the back of the couch.

Aziraphale frowned, thinking. "I'm no demon, and I asked you this yesterday but I couldn't be summoned, could I?"

"Don't see why not, we are of the same stock. And I saw that circle you have hiding under the rug for talking Upstairs. It's the same thing. Now get me something, please, before I do turn snake and couch surf for the rest of the month."

"Ah, yes, yes, just a moment." Aziraphale hurried to the kitchenette in the back to make Crowley a plate of leftovers; the silly old serpent hadn't bothered to eat when food came the first time around.

* * *

Crowley hated the sloshing feeling of food in his stomach. But it was sustain himself with a sacrifice- dead animal flesh, a.k.a. food- or sleep until Hell processed the paperwork.

Which might have taken a while if the clerk down there actually read off whose it was.

Oh. Eating was going to have to be the way to go in the future. He had no guarantee that somebody might conveniently forget to stamp and file it for a few hundred years as payback.

He sunk into the hot water of his own bath, poking at his stomach and letting out a very uncomfortable burp, the taste of lamb kebab on his breath. He wasn't even sure he owned a toothbrush.

Mutton. About as traditional a sacrifice as you got-

Crowley's annoyed train of thought was broken by the sound of his cell phone buzzing on top of the sink. Groaning, he reached over the tub, his arm immediately chilling once he'd stretched it out of the blissfully scalding water, and checked. There was only one person who'd call and thankfully it was him.

"'Ziraphale!" Crowley said cheerfully, though belied by an undertone of worry. "Something wrong?"

"Not… well, not wrong, per se. Just… attempting some experiments."

Crowley's eyes narrowed. Now that Aziraphale didn't feel obligated to be under Heaven's short leash he was actually finding himself quite a bit.

"Someone needs help with their chemistry homework?"

"Of… a sort." Aziraphale paused. "Crowley, can demons summon demons?"

"Yeah, but the same rules apply," Crowley said, an undertone of 'where are you going with this, Angel' in his voice. "And you can call up the Host."

"There's no exchange there, beyond prayer."

"Isn't that a form of offering?"

Crowley could picture Aziraphale's face as the gears turned. "Oh! Yes, quite. Trading a prayer for a chat."

"Yep," Crowley said, popping the 'p'.

"Would you mind if I… er, if it was all right with you…"

"Spit it out, angel."

"May I summon you?"

Crowley nearly dropped his iPhone in the bath. Thank goodness the newest models were water resistant, though his phones knew better than to run out of battery or, Hell forbid, die on him.

"Are you nuts?"

"Well, er, as I understand it, you have a right to determine fairness, but you have limits on what an equivalent exchange would be. I can't trade you a flower for a bar of gold unless the gold isn't worth anything to me or you desperately need that flower."

"Yes…" Crowley said, eyes narrowing.

"You're also immediately brought to the person who summoned you, no information line needed, and no magic used."

"And?"

"And you need a blood sacrifice… **twice**. Once to seal the trade with the summoner and another when it's done. I noticed you only touched the meat, Crowley, tell me if I'm wrong there."

"Ngk, you're correct." It's not as though he could argue with his angel. Not anymore.

"I went and… well. I got you some feeder mice." Aziraphale sounded a bit guilty. "I also picked up some fillet mignon if that is more your taste. I can cook it however you'd like."

"But why? You'd still owe me something, unless you plan on breaking the circle and leaving me naked on your shop floor. If you want me to teleport there, just hold the phone out."

"That's the last thing though," Aziraphale said thoughtfully. "A trade doesn't come from your miracle allowance. It's free. Er, in the grander scheme of things."

Crowley drained his bath, mildly annoyed, and toweled off, but didn't bother dressing. He was probably going to be pulled to a circle at Aziraphale's feet as a snake in a few minutes anyway.

"You're trying to cheat the system."

"So?"

Crowley laughed. "I'm proud of you. What, your end goal is to see if you can be summoned too, so if we ever need to miracle something we just summon each other?"

"That… yes. That's quite on the nose."

"You don't have a circle though. We'll have to make you a ritual. Go on, pull me through. I think I have an idea."

* * *

Crowley writhed. This time, he was expecting the pull and even then, it still disoriented him.

"Dear?"

"M'fine, give me a sec," Crowley muttered, as he shook himself out and coiled into a comfortable pile.

"Can I get you anything, Crowley, my boy?"

"Not yet, and wow. You went all out. Exactly by the book. That's not human blood is it?"

"Cow. From the butcher. I told the gent behind the counter I was planning to summon a demon but might use the leftovers to make some black sausage for a church fair."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Do you have leftovers?"

"Well, we'll see after we draw out some circles for me, yes?"

Crowley nodded, drinking in the power afforded him by a properly made circle, and a person who not just wanted a demon, but him specifically. It felt luxurious in a way not unlike his bath did.

It felt, despite the ominous Enochian writing and exacting sigils on the wooden floorboards, just a bit like love.

"If I stick my hand in will the circle break?"

"You summoned me, and put in the wards correctly, so no. Can even step in, if you like. Might be a bit like how consecrated ground feels for me, though."

Aziraphale leaned a hand over, before snapping it back and shaking it out.

"You okay, Zira?"

"Peachy keen, just a bit of a shock is all. I'll give it one more good old English try."

Aziraphale leaned again and reached forward, stroking Crowley on his head. "It's a bit unpleasant, though not unbearable. Will this be how it feels for me if summoned?"

"Prolly not. Unless it burned when you spoke with Metatron."

"I should be good then, that's a relief," Aziraphale said, snapping his hand back. "So, then, great and mighty serpent."

Crowley practically glowed under the compliment. "Foolish angel who dares disturb a demon?"

Aziraphale actually giggled. Crowley wished he could roll his eyes but settled for a hiss, before noticing the dark halo overhead.

"Oh that never comes out anymore," he said, twisting to look. "Oooh, this is nice. Got a bit more leverage, too."

"Leverage?"

"Most modern summons are either childs' playthings or concerned cries for help. They made enough of a circle to summon, but not enough to do it right. The circle itself can actually be used as part of your bargain. Going through the effort of killing a living creature, pledging devotion to the demon you're requesting- don't look at me like that angel, I can feel your dark prayer to me in my scales. It's cozy."

"Do… you know exactly what I said?"

"Words no, but feels… er, **nice**. I'm guessing you found a few summoning books and made your own call pieced from them?"

"And a bit of my own."

"Well that much is obvious. Not every century you get summoned with the good candles, frankincense, blood of fillet mignon and love. Start playing Queen and I'll think it was a date."

Crowley took a little pleasure in watching Aziraphale turn hot pink as the way down the neck.

"So I'm just going to take- no, I can feel what I'm offering to be just a bit more. I need something to tip the scales."

"What would you like, dear?"

"Hmmmmmm… it's pretty close to even," Crowley said, uncoiling to bask in the comfort of the summon. "Something small."

"We were interrupted yesterday. I could preen you."

"We were, weren't we? That… yeah. That should do it."

"So, what, you taste my blood now?"

Crowley laughed. "Haven't even asked what you're getting out of this."

"Your company and a test run?"

Crowley slithered to the end of the circle, pressing himself up to the invisible barrier like a snake in a terrarium. "Angel, we're going to make you a ritual."

* * *

Aziraphale frowned as he pricked himself with what looked like a very old ritual knife, holing out his ring finger to Crowley. He licked it, instantly closing the wound and violently shaking his head.

"Crowley?"

"'S fine, never tasted angel blood before. Bit too much love. Didn't hurt, just a shock."

"Oh that's good," Aziraphale sighed as Crowley clambered out of the circle and pooled in his lap. "Do you want to change?"

Crowley didn't reply. But where one moment ago there was a massive snake of indeterminate species, there was now a man-shaped being on his lap.

"I… er, I have a bathrobe for you if you'd prefer."

"Yeah, s'kinda chilly in here." Crowley snatched up the robe. "And if you do plan on summoning me regularly, get me one in black."

Xxx

"I… Crowley this is silly, even for me." The two of them peered over a stack of printouts from Aziraphale's computer, used only for- in some sense of irony, bookkeeping- and to look up restaurants in the area. Aziraphale wouldn't touch social media if it was the last means of reading literature on Earth. Well, maybe in that one instance he might.

"What three items would you put in a circle to summon me?" Aziraphale read aloud, looking at the printed picture of a young woman dressed as a little girl, white dress, white socks, but high-heeled black shoes, standing over a stylized summoning circle with a book.

"It's a visualization exercise. There's the general idea of summoning a demon, sort of like searching for a plumber and grabbing the first one you see on Yelp… er, in the phone book," Crowley amended his statement, given who he was talking to. "But summoning a specific demon requires knowing their exact phone number, as it were."

"Yours seems… shall I say, extremely generic."

"It's called not raising suspicion, Angel. What three things did you need to do an actual by-the-books summon to get me?"

"Draw your summoning circle on the floor with blood. In low light. And read some version of your summoning chant with conviction."

"Mhmm. I designed this one about… oh, 1,000 years ago during their Dark Ages overhaul," Crowley said, eyeing the floor, and thus, Downstairs. "After I'd been on Earth long enough. Let me break down what you're actually doing.

"First. The circle of blood. Chalk wasn't going to work, and I wasn't going to ask people to set fire to a clearing to get me like Hastur has. So why blood?"

"Because it's demonic?"

"Because it's not wasteful. You got yours from the butchers. Not once does my summon specify human blood. You actually did it the right way."

Aziraphale's face lit up. "Oh! You wanted to seem all scary to the demons below, but you were just being k-"

"Don't say it, angel," Crowley sighed out. He was used to the word by now. "Also normally, things represent other things. The blood represents wine."

"You just wanted to get drunk," Aziraphale said, sharply.

"If I'm being summoned, at least in the old days, it was from cults who wanted power or an insufferable genius in need of inspiration. And the former I usually wheedled my way out of dealing with, and the latter usually had plenty and plenty of the good stuff."

"You are insufferable."

"Don't I know it. So next. Low light. Candles, a dark room…"

"You'd be summoned without your glasses. The sudden brightness would make it hard to see."

"Yep."

"And the-"

"You read them, I know you of all people can read between the lines." Crowley's mouth stilled to a frown as Aziraphale pulled a stack of note cards from a pocket, mumbling out words to himself before blushing.

"Is this… no."

"Shut up."

"These passages sound positively vicious on the surface, but…" Aziraphale trailed off. "'Lo, he who burned the Ark and cursed upon our L-rd for raising the seas, who smuggled small beasts upon it to spite the Great Creator…', Crowley this is about that time you snuck a bunch of children in Noah's ark, isn't it?"

"Might be."

"'The great Serpent who wishes to corner the halo-tipped seeker of knowledge and-' oh dear, this one was dreadfully obvious."

Crowley looked anywhere but at Aziraphale. "M-might be."

Aziraphale huffed, shoved his note cards back in his pocket, and looked back towards the social media posts about summoning. He'd spare Crowley any more embarrassment, at least for now.

"Well, dear, if you wanted to bribe me over while I was in the middle of something very, very important, what would you use?"

* * *

"It has to be **Japanese **mayonnaise," Crowley tutted in a high pitched voice in a fake-annoyed mock of Aziraphale's stuffy cadence. But he had to admit, it **did **have to be Japanese mayonnaise, the good stuff that went with the ebi-fry Aziraphale liked at the Izakaya over near Crowley's flat. They were attempting the "ideal" version of Aziraphale's summoning ritual, so they had to do it by the book.

If said book was a bunch of Facebook posts and the instructions for Aziraphale's summon stapled together and left conspicuously mis-shelved in Aziraphale's shop.

Every time someone found it, letting the strange older man know, he'd laugh it off and say he'd seen the Yelp reviews of his place. Someone was probably playing a prank. If they wanted to take the thing, they could.

And a new one would be quickly printed out and left somewhere in the stacks.

Humans had to know how to summon him, not too many, but the knowledge had to be out there. Crowley stuck a copy on a few creepypasta sites and was delighted to see Anette- had to be her, because there was a mention of "if blood not available, Cardcaptor Sakura rug (and really really really really wanting to see him) from JList will work, oh and he likes tummy rubs"- had posted his too.

So Crowley complained, but not too much, as he finished the complicated circle out of squeeze mayo. There was the food, and Aziraphale's fussiness on display.

Next, he needed a book. This was so painfully obvious, it wasn't even worth debating. It was how exactly, and which book, that took the two of them time to hash out.

"If you want to catch this angel you need to read to him. Your favorite book. Or one of them, if you're a stupid hoarder who doesn't know how to let go of your fifth copy of Sherlock Holmes."- that part was Crowley's and he insisted it stay- "and read it aloud. Your favorite section. And it must be from an actual paper book, unless it's digital only or you're visually impaired, but really, you can read from a Braille book if you know Braille, that's just dandy by the angel."

Crowley plopped on the ground a few inches away and flipped through a hardcover copy of The Little Prince until he found the section with the fox, fiddling with the final item as he read aloud.

"Last, you need a snake. Nothing dead, mind. Live snakes are always welcome, but only if they're well cared for. Otherwise, something snake-adjacent will absolutely be fine. It's the thought that counts, which is why nothing dead. **Please**. For the poor angel's sanity. You're not summoning a demon, after all."

The thing in Crowley's pocket was a small piece of pumice. Crowley was doing the first two items perfectly, and was curious if the pumice was snake adjacent enough, before realizing, well, he was the snake himself. The moment he finished the passage and shut the book, he heard a small giggle and looked up.

"Haven't worm these in a long while."

Aziraphale's wings were out, pressed against the edges of the circle a bit awkwardly, and he was in his old robes from Eden.

"The wings or the robe, angel?"

"The robe, silly. I was in my normal suit waiting for the call. Seems like you turn snake and I go, oh, what's the term?"

"Old school?"

"Quite."

"How's it feel?"

"Well, the transit is a lot more comfortable than the phone system. Circle is a bit cramped. Wasn't expecting my wings to manifest but it does make sense."

"Try erasing a circle line."

"How?"

"With your foot?"

"And put my bare foot in **mayonnaise**."

"I have a **tub**, angel!"

Carefully, Aziraphale lifted his robe a little, lifted one foot, and dropped it square on a cross of lines, twisting the limb to try and wipe out the markings. When he pulled his foot back, they remained, with not a drop of condiment on his sole.

"Ah. Very secure."

"For this, yeah. Someone summons you half-hog and you'll be able to break it."

Aziraphale made a face.

"Anyway. I was offering you dinner tonight. Care to see what miracle you can tap into for that?"

Aziraphale beamed, actually glowing in the small space.

"Angel, your true form is leaking, be careful!"

"Ah, oh, yes, sorry. I… oh wow, that is worth quite a bit to me. Summoning magic is… something, that's for sure."

"You going to tell me what my prize is or surprise me?"

"Surprise."

"I'll take it," Crowley said, as he uncorked a bottle of wine. "Sealed in -ahem- blood then? I want you to know I'm **really **mad about this part."

"Don't be petty," Aziraphale frowned, as Crowley's hand passed far enough in to hand Aziraphale a glass. Crowley poured a bit for himself and clinked his glass to Aziraphale's. They downed it, and suddenly Aziraphale found he could stretch his wings more fully.

"Wine representing blood. Of course I'm going to be petty about it."

"Well, then, I'm your guardian angel, more blood please."

* * *

"Gabriel, sir, er."

"Spit it out," Grabriel snapped at the small angel, her suit slightly askew.

"We, er. We received a new requisition for guardian angel summoning."

"Yes, that's… why did you come to me? You should see your supervisor if a guardian angel's out of line, that's not my department."

"Aziraphale, sir. I was sent by Anael."

Gabriel scrunched up his face. "Come again?"

"Anael sent me," she said sheepishly, reordering her thoughts. "She already sent you three pings that you ignored. Aziraphale has guardian angel paperwork now. It's all in order and worst off, it reads like a demon summoning. Minus the blood and Latin chanting."

Gabriel turned three different shades, huffing. "I… he… what. Burn them. Call a backchannel and get our competitor to burn them if you need to."

"She already tried."

Gabriel grit his teeth, thinking under his breath, or 'breath' as he didn't actually require air. "Cutting off his miracle access won't do anything now. If it reads like a demon's summons, then there's at least one demon out there who would do it regularly just to spite us."

"Sir?"

"Just… just leave it. There's nothing we can do. She is clearly trying to test us, for some… some awful reason."

"Anael?"

"No, **Mom**, you daft angel. Now get out of my office!"


	4. Bookends

TW for this chapter- homelessness stigma, transphobia, homophobia. aziraphale is going around helping people who need it, after all, so expect him to be dealing with people's very personal problems.

as someone who is disabled, lost their job 3 years ago, and was almost homeless myself in a hell of a spiral... let's say this chapter might include a bit of wish fulfillment. (I'm in a really good place now btw, got a much better job, saved for a house, still disabled though but i've been legally blind since birth so what can ya do)

* * *

They were having dinner at a nice little pub when Aziraphale thought he'd had indigestion, only realizing what it actually was a second before he popped out of the booth. Before he could ask Crowley to get him a takeaway bag, he was under a bridge.

Just because he couldn't get tetanus didn't mean he liked the feel of broken bottles and gravel under his bare feet. Why couldn't he have been issued sandals or something in Eden? Maybe it was worth amending whatever Crowley had done on the internet to request summoners bring at least a pair of those cheap foam shoes he saw people wearing in summer.

"B-be not afraid?" It was more a question than a command. Oh, he did hope Crowley folded his clothes, and his bow tie hadn't fallen in his Shepard's pie. Miracle or no it would take a week to get the smell of gravy out and then he'd be craving it until it did.

"Fuck bro, you get that?" One boy, teenage maybe?, asked another wearing an oversized hoodie and sweatpants who was cursing at his cell phone.

"No, my phone battery died the minute the mayo started glowing! And yes I charged it before we started."

Aziraphale breathed an internal sigh of relief. Doubly so when he noticed that the CCTV off to the side was not blinking red.

Now that, **that **was very useful to know.

Aziraphale pushed his wings until he hit the barrier separating the sacred space he occupied (hah!) with the mundane.

"Did you two gentlemen need something this evening or were you merely pulling a stunt for social media?"

Baggy-clothes boy almost dropped his phone, startled. "S-sorry, sir, um, angel, sir, didn't think this would work."

"What book were you reading to summon me?" Aziraphale asked, a little more gently, as the one with the phone camera seemed just shy of hyperventilating and the circle seemed firm enough that Aziraphale couldn't leave it to give him a hug. "I see a bottle of mayonnaise and a rubber snake on the ground, but no book."

The loud kid turned his not-dead phone around to face Aziraphale, open to his Kindle app, and sheepishly commented, "It's digital only, so… please don't smite us or anything."

"I'm not going to smite you," Aziraphale said, rolling his eyes, as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "It just… if everyone who saw my summons tried it, well, I'd be pulled this way and that every few minutes. You're the first who's managed it correctly in the past month and, if I'll be frank, did it with absolutely no conviction. That book must be a real ringer. What was it?" Aziraphale failed to mention the first time he'd ever been summoned at all was by Crowley, about four weeks prior. He was sure someone on the internet must have attempted it since then. Maybe? It was hard to prove a negative.

"**M-mechanical Failure**," Loud Boy supplied. "I don't read much but I like the funny ones. It's about a con man who has to work for an incompetent military unit and stop a war, and it's digital only, like your instructions said."

Aziraphale practically snorted. "Ah, thank you for the recommendation then, I have a friend who would probably like it. And conviction or not, I'm here, so if you want a blessing, you can ask. And I do hope you have a wine substitute. I don't think either of you are quite old enough to drink."

"We… uh. We have juice boxes. Stealing wine from our mum to summon an angel probably wouldn't've worked."

"That's perfectly fine, given your ages."

The boy who had been recording stepped forward first. "Do I… have to say mine aloud?"

"I'm not omniscient, but let me see if I can make a guess," Aziraphale said, studying him. He'd gotten quite good at reading humans, if he focused on it. A few millennia actually paying attention to them would do that.

He pinpointed the boy's concern immediately.

"May I assume you in particular appreciated being called a gentleman?"

The boy looked down. And Aziraphale understood why he'd been pulled through. Whatever his loud friend- brother, probably, from the bits he gleaned- wanted, the quiet one with the phone recording needed him enough to bring him there.

Given Aziraphale's retirement, it actually felt good to have a job again, even if it was on-call at all hours. It wasn't like he slept, anyway.

"I have some power from you bringing me here, and I can do something small for you," Aziraphale said, softly, beating his wings against the edge of the well-constructed barrier. "But if you're looking for… something more drastic, shall we say, I'll need you to give me something in trade."

"If you want them, you can have them." Aziraphale understood what the teenager meant. Crowley had once said the same thing in a fit of rage when swapping sexes to male after being denied land during the Renaissance for being a woman.

"I can't do that. It's something you value, friend. Think on it. And **you**, loudmouth."

The other boy turned maroon.

"I'm only calling you that because neither of you had the decency to introduce yourselves. Nor I, I suppose. I am Aziraphale. Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden." Aziraphale hated the title but hoped it held some sort of weight. He was, to excuse the phrase, winging it.

"Did you drain Luke's phone battery?"

"If I did, it wasn't on purpose," Aziraphale huffed. "Yours seems to be in working order."

"The minute I switched it to the camera it died," he admitted sheepishly, holding up his own now-dead phone.

"I'm sure when you get home it'll take a charge just fine. I may not be good with technology but it isn't as if I'll go breaking it on purpose."

"You are not what I was expecting when I was summoning an angel."

"I… well. You aren't the first to say that. What exactly were you expecting?"

"You had the '**be not afraid' **part down, was expecting more eyes, more wings, a flaming halo or something."

"Ah. Someone who isn't expecting fat, naked cherubs. I told Michelangelo to cut it, but noooooo."

"Wait…"

"Rick, he said Eden," the hoodie wearing boy- **Luke**\- hissed.

"You can call me old," Aziraphale said, smiling a bit. "And the eyes and wings and fire thing is a bit more correct but unfortunately I tend to blind humans with it. So this is what you get."

"Are you really going to give me something?"

"You called me here correctly, so at least one of you had need of me."

"I kinda just wanted a video for Instagram."

Aziraphale assumed it was just the name of one of the myriad social media sites that Crowley caused minor mischief on.

"I'm sorry, but I'd prefer that not the case."

"Then… whatever. Give my half to Luke. Someone's going to think it's a shitty prank anyway. Some middle aged bloke in a dress."

"Excuse me, but these are my issued robes, young man." **Were**, but they didn't need to know.

Aziraphale felt an odd surge of power as the loud kid- Rick- shuffled annoyed out of the underpass.

His selflessness had suddenly made Aziraphale a hell of a lot stronger. Pun intended.

"Your older brother?"

"Yeah."

"I'll assume he knows, then."

"Yeah."

"His idea?"

"He's been trying to get Instagram famous for a while. Try out all the weird ghost hunting creepypasta stuff."

"You're saying words, my boy, but I don't quite follow. I am familiar social media exists, but I don't exactly partake."

"He finds weird chants or summons and tries them out online. He has a… store where people can give him money to see him do it."

Aziraphale considered it for a moment, trying to parse it in terms he could understand. "He's an artist and receives patron support. And this struck his fancy."

"Well, yeah, but mine too. There was a comment from someone saying this angel was actually nice to gay people and…"

"Ah. I know exactly who wrote that."

"It's…" Luke replied, downcast.

Aziraphale cut him off with a hand wave and one of his genuine smiles. "Completely true my boy. Now, your brother, in a fit of anger, actually just did you a favor. He asked for his blessing to be used on you. That act of selflessness gave me quite a boost of power. I can do what you're asking, but I won't be able to undo it. Is that what you want?"

Luke didn't even hesitate. "My parents would…"

"Do what? Kick you out? I'll leave you with a phone number in your phone. If that happens, you call it. It isn't mine. Lord knows I can't stand the blasted things, cell phones, but it's a friend's, and he'll be able to point you in the right direction better than I could."

Luke nodded. "Yes, please, Mister Aziraphale."

"Just Aziraphale."

Luke grabbed two juiceboxes, holding one out.

"You're going to have to pass it to me in here, Luke, I can't leave this space until the agreement's been confirmed with a drink. Don't worry, the circle won't harm you." For emphasis, Aziraphale stretched his wings and Luke watched as they curled around an invisible column of air.

"Are… you trapped in there?"

Aziraphale shrugged. He wasn't worried about being hurt by humans, but like Crowley had complained the first time he'd witnessed his friend being summoned back in Jasmine Cottage, he'd be stuck there until the circle was broken or a deal made. Aziraphale filed it away to ask Crowley how to manage a stalemate, because, while not life threatening, would be incredibly annoying to deal with. He'd rather not be stuck in a circle for a few decades, if he could avoid it.

"I am at your mercy, yes."

Luke shakily passed Aziraphale a juice box and took one for himself. They both poked in their straws and drank, Aziraphale wincing a little at the artificial flavor until his wings could break through and he could stop drinking the infernal thing. He did a little hop to avoid the mess of condiments on the asphalt, and fluttered next to Luke.

"I can see you, Rick," he said, annoyed. "I know you're on the outside of the overpass."

"You're… really going to make my brother…"

"It's what he wants."

"Yeah, I know."

"Hand out, Luke," Aziraphale said simply. It wasn't strictly necessary, but humans did like the reassurance that when something supernatural happened, there was a process to it, and a choice. Luke took a moment and held out his hand, and held in his breath.

"I didn't overwhelm you. Your body will start producing more testosterone in bits over time. Give it a year."

Luke looked shaken, but in a good way, as he clutched his own shoulders. His binder wasn't pressing in on him anymore.

"Now, let me see your phone," Aziraphale said, as Luke began to cry. The minute it was in Aziraphale's hands, the phone's charge returned. He didn't know the teen's unlock code, but his thumb was that of an angel's and thus left the exact trace needed when he did. Frowning, he recalled the symbol for calling another mobile, punched in Crowley's number, and waited.

"Crowley, are you in a place I could join you in?"

"Yeah, takeaway bag and I'm in your shop. How was your first gig?"

"Awkward. If you get calls or texts from this number in the future, help the kid sending them."

"Oh? Now this is a story you'll need to share."

"Over wine."

"Yeah, I'll get something from my place, just pop over."

"By **myself**?"

"I'm not a taxi service. You know how to come through on your own, Angel."

"Luke?" Aziraphale asked, addressing the teen instead of Crowley on the line. He grabbed for Aziraphale without thinking, before the angel could protest. Aziraphale passed the phone to Rick, glaring, then pulled Luke into a warm, tight hug.

"Baby steps, my boy, he cooed, before looking over Luke's head to glare at his brother. "I'll leave you the circle and some feathers for your… whatever it is you do, but take a photo of me and I'll smite your brother's phone."

"Yessir," Rick said.

"And don't you dare hang up, if you know what's good for you, Rick."

Crowley was howling from the other end of the line, and Rick put it to his ear. "You an angel too?"

"Over my dead body, no, kid. And put me on speaker." Rick did and Crowley addressed them all. "Okay, hearing sobbing, Zira, I hope you didn't fuck this up."

Rick mouthed 'That's your boss?' at Aziraphale, leaving the angel red embarrassed, as he rubbed a hand on Luke's shuddering back.

"He didn't," Luke offered.

"Good, because you're the first humans to summon him right and if he screwed up I'll… well I'd figure that out if it happened."

"Thought you said nobody's summoned you in the last month," Rick said accusatorially.

"I didn't lie."

Luke laughed into Aziraphale's robe. "I get the **trainee** angel."

"Well, excuse me, I was never a guardian angel before," Aziraphale huffed indignantly. "Was on the Principality division. I used to watch over places, not people. Got a bit of a… change of career path."

"Sounds like a demotion," Rick hissed, cheering Luke up almost immediately as the boy gurgled a giggle.

"Oh, worse," Crowley said, conspiratorially, likely with a giant grin on his smug, smug face. "Aziraphale got **sacked**."

"You're not a…" Rick asked suspiciously.

"I'm not a **fallen **angel," Aziraphale complained, boring a hole through the phone with his eyes, metaphorically, at least. "Just sacked from being a soldier. They said I was too soft. Gave too many miracles. So, here I am. Stuck in mayonnaise summoning circles, answering the wills of people that Heaven thinks is too petty to care about. But remember this, you two. You are not too small to matter. **Ever**. Heaven usually has sticks up their collective asses. So far up in the clouds they forget a forest can't exist without the trees."

"Is there like… a Yelp review system for guardian angels?" Rick asked. "Because I'd put in a good word for the service."

Crowley howled harder. "Gabriel, one star, comes and tells me I'm pregnant with God's son at two in the fucking morning and doesn't even bring any diapers."

Aziraphale covered his mouth with his hand as he choked on spit.

"Is… is that the review for Mary receiving news about Jesus?" Luke asked the mysterious voice on the other end of the line. "Is Gabriel an asshole?"

"Might be."

"No, he **is** an asshole," Aziraphale interjected. "Has no tact at all, the musclehead he is."

"Aziraphale, language!"

Luke laughed again. "Tell your boss I'd give him a good review, too."

"Crowley is not my boss," Aziraphale muttered, as he flapped his wings a few times until some molt came loose, and pushed himself though the cell signal back to his own bookshop in Soho.

* * *

"Might not be your boss, but I have you whipped," Crowley said, clicking the call off as he helped Aziraphale to his feet.

"Ow, ow, ow," Aziraphale complained.

"It's not that bad, angel."

"Not the phone line, that's just nausea inducing. I've got broken glass in my foot."

"Well, I'll patch you up and you can tell me all about your first summoning."

"I can fix myself, Crowley."

"Blitz," Crowley replied sharply, the single word cutting deep into Aziraphale's heart. The night right after the Nazis tried to kill (well, discorporate) him. Aziraphale spent hours peeling off Crowley's socks and tending to the horrifying blisters on his soles that came with walking on consecrated ground.

"Can't argue," Aziraphale whimpered, as he banished his wings and sat on the sofa while Crowley tended to his feet and listened.

* * *

Aziraphale quickly discovered he enjoyed his new demotion, though the lack of shoes and need to travel through the phone lines back to Crowley were annoyances. He was summoned far more often than Crowley- about once every three weeks or so to- according to Crowley- once or twice a year. It was to be expected, he supposed. Unless someone was in insanely dire straits or a powerful witch, nobody was getting Crowley without painting a sigil in blood.

What surprised Aziraphale after his fourth summon was that none of his requests had come from particularly religious people. Maybe it was a fear they might actually get a demon, maybe the location of the information skewed younger, and thus, less religious, or maybe the whispers on the internet that Aziraphale was a patron saint of queerfolk was cycling in a specific group that wanted an attempt. His most recent summons was for a literal blessing; two lovely lesbian women in Ohio, USA did it as a joke two nights before their wedding.

A few bottles of wine passed between the three of them later, and Aziraphale had teased out that neither of their fathers were willing to walk them down the aisle.

Aziraphale had Jessie call Crowley (they hadn't yet actually come to an agreement so he sat, primly, in the center of the circle, his left leg falling asleep so he wouldn't actually slide it into the squiggle of mayo), they used the summons' free magic to miracle up some dashing tuxedos, proudly walked the couple down the aisle while secretly blessing them, and the demon twirled both his new 'daughters' out on their first dances before slipping out by a well-placed call to Anathema to send them close enough to London to get home.

Luke had only texted once, likely afraid to intrude. "hope u passed on to upper mngment ur trainee did well", with a photo of him in swim trunks and no shirt.

It wasn't until his fifth summon that he'd actually broken down crying himself.

Fall and winter had finally come and gone, and early April left London in bouts of misty rain. Aziraphale and Crowley were enjoying an evening stroll under a shared umbrella, when the former clutched his chest.

Crowley put a leg behind Aziraphale, bending a knee awkwardly so that when he phased away, leaving his clothes behind, his gorgeous Victorian suit wouldn't end up in a puddle.

* * *

The first thing Aziraphale noticed was the boxes. It was a smallish room, cheap linoleum, short, scratchy carpet. There was one door, leading off to what Aziraphale assumed was a bedroom, since the room had no bed. His circle was tiny, just a circle of ketchup, not even mayonnaise, no details or geometric designs.

A young woman was on the floor, holding a toddler in an arm and a cheap book in the other, a Dr. Seuss.

"Be not afraid," Aziraphale said, smiling softly. "I'm Aziraphale, Principality and Guardian of the Eastern Gate, and I am here to help."

"I… I don't have wine," she stammered, startled, clutching her child tighter, clearly in shock that he plea had been answered. "Maybe I can call a church?"

"That's unnecessary, ma'am." Aziraphale had barely room to shift himself, and his wings were pushed awkwardly into his back. The power in the circle was the strongest he'd seen yet, but he could tell this woman wasn't a witch. Children inherently had magic in them, and her sleeping toddler might have helped things along, but he'd been summoned by sheer determination, which meant things were dire. "Whatever you can share with me is enough to consecrate your blessing. Even tapwater would do."

"Don't got none, they shut us off yesterday."

"You're… you're losing your home."

"Mhmm, got twenty four hours to come up with rent or I'm on the streets again. Figured using some expired ketchup was better than nothin'." The woman at his feet, among scattered half packed boxes, was sunken with despair.

"You poor dear," Aziraphale breathed out. "Your water's been shut, I assume electricity too? When was the last time you ate?"

"Yesterday, maybe. Been giving mine to my boy here."

Aziraphale rubbed his temples. "You're in America, aren't you? There's a few politicians of yours that need a visit from Hell sometime soon to set them straight. For now… let me see what I can do. No water, so, hm. This might sound a bit crass, but could you spit in your palm for me?"

The woman obliged.

"Now, hold it to me, and I'll, er, I'll drink it. Most sorry. I wouldn't be asking if there were an alternative and I would be honored to help."

The woman pressed her hand to his face, and he cupped a hand underneath, tipping it to him. Drinking a human woman's spit. He thought of Gabriel, and how the bastard would probably press against the line of cheap ketchup until the thing broke and fly off.

But Aziraphale wasn't Gabriel or Sandalphon or Michael. Uriel wasn't as bad as the rest of the lot, but she still sided with them. And if Aziraphale had to drink spit to sign a contract with someone who needed his help, so be it.

* * *

"I'm assuming you don't have a phone, ma'am?"

"I'm mooching wifi from the shop 'cross the street, but my phone's on fumes."

"Hand it here." Aziraphale took it, and the device was back to a full charge. "Mind if I call a friend for help?"

"As long as you don't let the Devil in my home, I'm at my wits end… Ah… Ah…"

"Aziraphale. Zira is fine."

"Zira. Never read your name in the Bible."

"There's far more angels than Sandalphon and Gabriel and Metatron," Aziraphale said offhandedly, as he immediately broke the one rule she'd requested he not. "I'm in there, just not by name. I was… er, on apple tree duty, as it were."

"Izzat you, 'Ziraphale?" Crowley's voice came out tinny. "Not back somewhere yet." As in, he wasn't yet at his flat or the bookshop, in case Aziraphale's summon was an easy one.

"No, I might be here a while."

"Another wedding to bless?"

"Wish you'd bless my weddin', maybe then I wouldn't be in this mess."

Crowley went silent. He let Aziraphale lead these sorts of conversations. "Er, **Archangel Crowley**, our friend here is a single mother facing loss of her apartment. I'm not quite sure what to do, yet. Our friend seems quite devout and I hope I can answer her prayers."

"Help pick her back up on her feet, Aziraphale, as much as you can, and let me know when you're done."

"Even angels have supervisors, do you?"

"Er, yes, and a miracle allotment. I'll have to be judicious how I help."

"Miracle allotment? What is Heaven, a Wal-Mart? You only get fifteen minute breaks between miracles too? That why I don't get no answer when I pray?"

"Hell's closer to a Wal-Mart, don't look at me like that, I had to go once to handle some holy water. Heaven is… its more like a high end hotel, where if you're not wealthy enough, the management will smile and do everything to get you to leave yourself so they don't have to bother with kicking you out. Some of…" Aziraphale trailed off, at the look of horror on her face. "It's nice if you're a human and you end up there, please, just hear this as a mild complaint from a disgruntled employee. And trust me, God can hear me. Hasn't smited me yet for the constant whinging... Er, let's talk about your rent first. What do you owe?"

"Six fifty."

"Hang on," Aziraphale muttered, mentally rifling through his cash box in his shop. He held out his hand and a little less than three hundred dollars fluttered into it.

He needed to remember to keep some more international currency at home. Maybe he'd- shudder- sell a book or two to have some on hand.

Next, he did the same in the small safe where Crowley kept his own cash. Another eight hundred or so dropped on the kitchen counter.

"That's as much as I can gather. Heaven doesn't exactly keep stacks of dollars around. We can make things, but making money from the firmament is forgery. I don't want you in trouble. Will this cover the bills?"

"A month's, yes."

"So, there's your water, gas, and electric. What's your own job situation like, ma'am?"

"Diner, Waffle House, hours are spotty and I don't have childcare."

"I, er. Well. I'm not the best with children but I might be able to pull a favor, if you don't mind an ethereal presence watching your son."

"Ethereal?"

"Not of this world, someone like me," Aziraphale said. He was careful not to say demon, because he feared the woman would lose her head.

But Crowley wasn't the only creature from Downstairs stationed on Earth, and, as their retirement had progressed, the two of them were actually on decent terms with not a small number of the low level hellions lurking on Earth. Most of them enjoyed and appreciated their assignments, and all of them were grateful to Aziraphale's bookshop as a neutral zone. Aziraphale asked no questions other than how they wanted their coffee or tea, and the demons could glare daggers at some poor entry-level angel who couldn't smite because that bookshop was Not Somewhere You Went (Unless You Also Liked Earth More Than Your Boss, In Which Case, One Lump or Two?).

In short, asking a small rotation of vetted demons (and one or two angels) to babysit via teleporting though some phone calls was feasible. The child would be in kindergarten in an angel's eye-blink anyway.

"So, that's your rent and your childcare. Why don't you go and pay those bills off while I clean up? I'll get the ketchup out of the carpet and start organizing your house, if you like."

The woman stared at him and the wad of bills in his hand, a wing still twitching with an awful cramp. "Az… az… Angel. I'm not dreaming, am I?"

"No ma'am."

"My name is Izzy, and you are a blessing."

"You called me, Izzy, and I'm here to help."

* * *

Izzy came back in an hour to find a new bed in the bedroom, fresh sheets, and an assembled crib. Aziraphale was doing funny things with his fingers like a cat's cradle, and with an audible pop, a bookshelf appeared, which he shoved into the side of the living room. The carpet was spotless, and he couldn't wait for her to see the fridge. The power was off, sure, but Aziraphale knew that her money order to pay her backdued bills would surprisingly be correctly filed by the day's end, and his natural glow was keeping the place powered for now.

"Do you have work today, Izzy?"

"Bout three hours."

"How about I cook you up some food?"

"No power. Stove's lectric, and I don't have food nor pots."

"I'm using the last of my allotment on keeping this place powered and watered until your bills go through. And you have both those things now."

Izzy fell to the floor, holding her son and crying. Aziraphale dropped down, hiking up his robe a bit to join her.

"Izzy, it's not my place to pry, but there are food banks. There are support systems here. Why wait until the eleventh hour to try something so crazy as trying to contact an angel?"

"Was always taught the Lord provides."

Aziraphale frowned, a moment off from saying 'She certainly doesn't', before properly biting his metaphorical tongue. "That may be true, but she works in mysterious ways."

"She?"

"**She**. The Bible is a giant game of telephone, Izzy. Things got lost in translation. Always hoped the love thy neighbor bit stayed in. Nearly lost it in some of those versions."

He held up a wing in offering, slowly wrapping it around her and feeling out if she wanted the direct contact.

"She's not testing you, Izzy. Not specifically. Because humans have free will, and that includes your, ahem, less-than-stellar ex. And you have the free will to ask for the help you need after I'm on another assignment. There's billions of people on this planet and not nearly a fraction of that in angels. Less, if you only count the ones like me who actually bother with Earth."

"There aliens out there too, huh?"

Aziraphale smiled warmly. "Might be. Might be fairies and mermaids and the Kraken, too. Not my department."

"There are, aren't there."

"There are. Universe is huge, Izzy. Even I learn new things, and I was around when it was just a babe like your boy. What's his name?"

"Joshua."

"You know, that was Jesus's real name, right? Yeshua."

For the first time, Izzy laughed. "Bible's a giant game of telephone."

"Correct, Izzy, now why don't you unpack those boxes, while I make you some food? And then I think I'll call my friend By. She's fantastic with kids."

* * *

By came through the telephone, and Joshua giggled as the tiny looking girl adjusted her giant spectacles, more for show and her idea of cute fashion, before cracking her back and regarding Izzy and her son.

"By, show Izzy your wings," Aziraphale said warmly. By loosened hers into reality, spreading their light grey plumage. Aziraphale knew this particular demon wasn't only good with children, but didn't have completely scorched wings like Crowley's. He'd just keep his mouth shut that By stood for Byleth.

"Coworker?" Izzy asked, as By banished them and graciously accepted Joshua to carry in one arm.

"Different department," By said. "I'm… er, a muse for music. And math."

"Josh likes music."

"Then I'll like Josh," she said, smiling. "Maybe we can play some songs and dance together, Josh? How's that?" she added in a bright sing-song that put birds to shame.

"Can't thank you enough, Az… Az…"

"Just Zira."

"I want to get it right just once."

"A-zi-ra-phale. Four syllables."

"Aziraphale. You two are angels."

"I'm going to go now, Izzy. You just text the number I'm about to call whenever you need Josh looked after. I'll send you some research about some good food banks in your area, and early education for him. Remember, God does work in mysterious ways, but She also won't force someone's hand. Please. Ask for help. Keep asking. Never stop. Now go be amazing at work. I know you will."

* * *

Aziraphale landed on his bookshop floor, sobbing, the glow of the last of the miracle from her summons faded.

"Angel," Crowley said, picking him up off the floor to hold him tightly as he sobbed. "You have to eat. Can't end a summons without a sacrifice."

"I didn't help her," he cried, as he was forcefully pushed on the sofa and a meat pasty shoved in a hand. "I cleaned up and left her food and rent for a month. I gave her a fish, but didn't teach her how, she's… she's just going to be back to square one in thirty day's time." And through sobs and inhaling three pasties and a single-serving pot pie, Aziraphale recounted what happened. That she was one of many not even living paycheck to paycheck. The empty fridge and the tiny, moldy space.

"You gave her hope, angel," Crowley finally said. "You cleaned, and cooked, and found her a pretty decent babysitter, not as good a nanny as I am, but we're kind of on borrowed miracles without a summoning intervention, and By isn't. Might want to ask Purson if he's willing, I know he's pretty good with the little ones, and boy can he hide-n-seek."

"Zerachiel's also good with children, though I'll have to ask them to pick a gender and stick with the same one when watching the kid."

"Bit of an American Southern Christian, is she?"

"Is, though seems like she's going to start doing a bit of questioning."

"Bah! An angel making a human question their faith. What'll you do now, then?"

"Blood sacrifice?" Aziraphale asked, holding up an empty wine glass.

"Bad day at work, huh?" Crowley nudged him while refilling it. Aziraphale took the opportunity to shed his robe and pull his regular clothing back on, shrugging on his waistcoat and appreciating a few more layers in the drafty shop.

"No, I think it was a fairly pleasant one, all told. Though I still can't stand the uniform."


	5. An Axel to Grind (a)

if you haven't done so, go play pony island. it's like $5 USD on steam and if you like Good Omens you'll appreciate the humor. you're a beta tester for a bunch of demons' shitty arcade games, trying to find a way to break out, it's short and good and has some really unusual boss fights.

* * *

"How's Byleth doing?" Aziraphale asked, as he leaned forward on the sofa, pulling Crowley even closer than he already was, head pillowed on Aziraphale's stomach ticking away on his phone held overhead.

"I think she's found a new career in babysitting," Crowley snorted. "A Duke of Hell, singing lullabies to toddlers. And not even the infernal variety. Though she does do a live demo with Itsy Bitsy Spider."

Aziraphale shook his head, smiling lightly. He supposed it was no different than him accidentally making people have an urge to hug each other when he was in a good mood.

"Crowley, what in the Lord's name are you doing with that photo of her?"

"She made a face when I brought her wine, the spoilsport doesn't even like drinking," he said, shifting just **so**on his warm and friendly pillow, "snapped it, and added the math meme stuff on it, and, ugh, explaining this would take aaaaaaagessss. Short version- there's this picture of a woman- soap opera star, actually- with math all around her who looks confused. People send it as a meme when they can't understand why someone else said something so **unfathomably **dumb. And Byleth rules over math and… blast it, joke's ruined. Let's just say By's a minor celebrity in Hell now, among the technologically literate." Crowley fumbled lazily for his wine; Aziraphale handed him his glass with a smile. He waited for an opportune moment when Crowley was in the middle of a nice long sip.

"Ah. Is it spreading around on the scary spaghetti websites?"

Spittle and dry white sprayed out of Crowley's mouth in a fine mist as Aziraphale grinned inwardly. He'd heard the real word enough to know what it meant, but it was so **fun **teasing the demon sometimes. "**Creepypasta**! Internet urban legends!" Crowley flailed around exasperated and it was **adorable**, not that Aziraphale would mention as such. "Come on, at least get with the end with the **20th **century. We're a fifth of the way through the next one!"

Aziraphale just laughed out of the depths of his being, shaking the both of them.

"You **knew**," Crowley said, accusingly, and equally lovingly. "You **knew **and you still riled me up you bas- **shit**!"

Aziraphale snatched the wine glass away just in time as Crowley blinked out of existence.

It would be a shame to have to tap into a miracle just to clean it off the floor.

* * *

Aziraphale had been summoned seven times since he'd been forcefully added back to Heaven's payroll due to a sideways job replacement program (not that they were **paying **him, but still). This was the first time Crowley'd been pulled since Pulsifer had unceremoniously upended him to Tadfield the second October post apocawasn't; today was three months shy of the second anniversary of the world not ending, to be precise. He might only get summoned ten to fifteen times a decade, but he'd experienced it much more than Aziraphale ever had, and his self preservation kicked to overdrive.

First, take stock. Crowley coiled himself into a loose pile and observed. It surprised him when Aziraphale returned from his own escapades to describe the same scenery he was usually used to- nights, under bridges or in abandoned buildings… though Aziraphale at least had been summoned inside a house twice now. Most people didn't want a demon, or even an angel, to know where they lived.

The floor burned. A church. Ugh. Crowley hated church defilings. A smashed mirror was laid on the floor, sideways, with what was likely lipstick scrawled on it in Enochian, though the spelling on three words was visibly off. The summoner had their back to it, wearing a hoodie and a mask.

They weren't even calling Crowley specifically, Crowley mused from observing the setup. They were just doing a general summoning and he'd gotten thrown in the proverbial speed-dial as the next available agent (of Hell).

Crowley relaxed into that knowledge. It meant his file Down There was still active. It also probably meant his demonic miracles were still on their normal tap, but that was a matter of one of their- not friendly, per se, but less antagonistic- angelic or demonic acquaintances to go rifling through files in their home offices without raising suspicion.

Michael was probably their best bet for getting answers from upstairs (Aziraphale took him- her? Crowley never knew what pronoun to use for them and was too afraid to ask- for sushi a few months ago when he visited to shake Aziraphale down for his new and unauthorized demotion, and suddenly Aziraphale was getting small packages from Heaven again), Asmodeus from below (the demon was easily bribed with the promise of a wing grooming, a few fingers of good whisky, and an evening playing a video game where he featured as a boss; even Beelzebub had taken a shine to **Pony Island **on the few times they'd hopped upstairs to check-on-slash-threaten Crowley. Crowley assumed the Prince just missed his ugly face- and he was right- but they were also absolutely taking notes for future torture sessions.)

Crowley stayed quiet, other than moving in a lazy circle to keep his scales off any one spot on the floor.

He was going to need a lot of ointment, and Aziraphale kissing his burns better later. (That part was **vital**, he could swear ten ways to Sunday. And not just because getting a new corporation was not going to be easy.)

Crowley was the first to break between his and the summoner's unspoken contest of silence. "You're the one that sssssummoned me, mortal, what do you need?"

He was getting itchy.

The voice squeaked; Crowley realized the person was young. He always ended up with the kids, didn't he? He didn't know if it was random chance or if some paper-pusher downstairs knew he could do the little ones.

A lot of demons complained children were worse than other demons, so it was understandable. Now, wether the paper pushers running Dial-a-Demon gave him these assignments because they thought Crowley loved or hated working with kids…

He'd take it.

"Hey," Crowley soothed. Kid must have been dared, they were frozen to the floor. "Kid, I'm not going to hurt you. You got lucky. Could have gotten Dagon, ugh."

Dagon actually **wasn't **too bad with the little ones. **Hastur**, though…

Because it was a desecrated-mirror-in-the-church summoning, Crowley didn't have a circle to deface. Or a cell phone to get back to Aziraphale; his was probably on the sofa.

The kid replied in a language Crowley didn't remember offhand. **Joy**. He tapped into his gift of tongues rather than try and root around in his brain to see if he'd ever learned what the kid spoke. Even if he knew it, it was probably a few centuries out of date.

"Bring my mom back."

Oh. Not a dare. This was going to be one of **those**.

Crowley slithered around to face the child but the kid shuffled. Right. These kinds of summons if you looked right at the demon they could claim your soul then and there.

Thankfully, **could **wasn't **must**. "Ssssorry about earlier, kid. I usually assume everyone knows some English. I'm not going to go around yelling at people in Latin." Crowley tried to keep his voice soft and even. "Is this better?"

The kid shoved their phone back into a pocket in the hoodie. Crowley tried to nose himself into making some kind of eye contact with the kid, camaraderie I'd be could, but the summoner continued to shuffle in a circle on the floor to avoid him.

"You were trying to find a translation app?"

The kid failed to answer. Right.

"Hey. So I'm Crowley," Crowley continued, calmly. "Now you know my name. You get some power over me. I'm not going to ask you yours. I'm polite enough to not use that against you but I know you don't have a reason to believe me so I'll-"

"Axel."

Crowley frowned. Sweden or Germany, then, probably. Unless it was the old Hebrew Axel.

He scrunched up his snout and replied, listening to the sounds coming from his mouth. He could probably do Hebrew without being in tongues, but the church was too chilly to be Israel in May.

"You didn't have to," Crowley replied, listening to his own voice. Swedish, he mused. Didn't sound like German, and definitely wasn't Hebrew.

"You'd take my soul anyway for her, so."

"No, another demon would take your soul and probably damn both of you to Hell for the presumption," Crowley sighed. "Or if you were lucky, take pity on you for being too young to make choices yourself and just let you go. But I can tell you thought this over, didn't you? Look, Axel, I can't bring back the dead."

Well, that wasn't totally true. He could, if he could catch the soul in time and shove it back into its body before it realized what was wrong. Easier to do with animals. You basically had to be present at death to do it for humans, and then there was the whole issue of fixing the body that had failed them to death in the first place…

The chance he could pull the kid's mother from the ether, though? Too small to even consider.

Crowley shook his whole upper body and continued. "If she's settled in the afterlife… I could get a medium to channel her for you. You could talk to her for a bit. A day or two at most, but that's about it. Two souls squashed in one body is no good for either of them. I won't charge you your soul- hate dealing in the things, but I am… hm."

Crowley nosed his way around the child, feeling for anything significant.

"Are you wearing a pendant? Wow is that cliché."

"S'my mom's."

"Course it is. I'll trade."

The boy grasped at his neck a moment before pulling it off, holding it away from him.

"Not yet, kid, gotta seal the deal in blood first. Sorry, I don't make the rules. If you don't have a knife, I can bite you. Promise it won't hurt, and I'll fix you up right after."

The boy immediately shot out a hand, still not bearing to look at Crowley. He nipped, took a taste, and sealed the wound. The kid don't even flinch.

Crowley lashed out in one quick moment, grabbing the locket in his teeth to swallow it whole. The offering dissolved into a hot pool of magic down his esophagus; he blanched a moment. Love. He knew it would be full of it but it still managed to catch him off guard on occasion.

The boy screamed, stumbling back. Crowley pushed the ball of pure energy further into his being. "Trust me, I'm one of the less ugly ones."

"Snake!"

"Freezing snake," Crowley corrected.

"You ate my locket!"

"Yes, and it gave me the power I needed to do this," Crowley insisted, wrapping around one of Axel's legs and, using the surge of a miracle, popped them both back in Aziraphale's shop.

They were greeted with the stench of wine as a pool leaked out of a broken bottle- the one Aziraphale and Crowley had been sharing before he'd been called- onto the shop floor. Aziraphale's clothes were flattened on the couch, under Crowley's.

"Bugger thisssss," Crowley hissed irritably as he slithered behind the couch to turn human, reaching over the back to grab at the wad of clothes for at least his trousers. He wasn't making an Effort, and didn't have anything to hide (and certainly no shame), but he wasn't sure if that would scare the kid even more.

"You want some cocoa, kid?"Crowley asked, popping his torso up from behind the sofa to root for his long sleeved v-neck shirt among the rumpled array. "We might be waiting a while."

* * *

"And now my robes are covered in mayonnaise," Aziraphale huffed fussily, as the bottom of his hem was coated in goo. "Should have gone with chalk but Crowley said 'noooo it has to be **relevant'**."

"Aziraphale, what are you doing in my house?" Marjorie asked, confused.

She paused the audiobook coming out of the speaker on her warm windowsill, putting her coffee making tools down.

"Ah! Mz. Potts. Terribly sorry, but you summoned me." Aziraphale nodded at the streamer shaped like a snake decorating her refrigerator- the Them had given it to her as a welcoming gift, as a sort of shared memory of the airbase.

"Summoned you?" Marjorie asked, eyebrow raised. "I didn't even know you took house calls."

"Er, it's a rather long story," Aziraphale said embarrassed. "Looks like you accidentally did my ritual, so, er, here I am! Anything I can do for you while I'm here or would you mind letting me go?"

"I hear that blasted southern pansy in my kitchen."

"Ah, Mister Shadwell, hello," Aziraphale called cheerfully, having absolutely no desire to talk to the man in this specific instance.

"Yer in a dress. With wings."

Aziraphale sighed. "Well, yes, I **am**an angel. You did discorporate me two years ago and witness me possess Marjorie for a few hours. Terribly sorry about that, by the way."

Marjorie waved it off with a pshhhw noise and one of her glittering smiles. "Love, you've apologized plenty and I **let you in**. At this point, you've probably spent more time saying sorry than you did using my body. Er, phrasing I suppose."

Shadwell ignored the comment completely, stating dumbstruck at Aziraphale's cramped wings.

"Och, didn't realize it meant, well…" he said, gesturing to Aziraphale who was holding his robes awkwardly to prevent more staining. "**That**. But a dress, laddie?"

"Aziraphale can wear what he pleases, dear." Marjorie said firmly. "Though it doesn't seem your usual style. With those wings of yours, you might benefit from just a bit more color in the outfit, no?"

Aziraphale reddened a bit. "We can discuss my sense of fashion- or lack of as it were- another day. As it stands, Marjorie summoned an angel- **me**\- and might I say it is awfully cramped in this circle."

"Oh, dear, I summoned you with the broken jar of mayonnaise on the floor?"

"That, and the audiobook," Aziraphale admitted. "And you have an icon of a snake in the room. You weren't thinking about me, were you?"

"Oh, dear me, I was. Was just going through my head who to send invitations to."

She showed off her hand, a modest gold band on a finger, inset with amber. "Never been a fan of diamonds, me."

Aziraphale let go of his robe in delight, the fabric squelching on the floor. "Dear me, congratulations! Oh, I wish I could hug you, both of you, but I'm a tad indisposed."

Aziraphale ran his foot through the muck on the floor, smearing it. Wouldn't that have- ah. Couldn't have broken the circle.

The bit of condiment that was actually keeping him locked in place wasn't wiping off. The rest on the floor was just unfortunate collateral damage.

"Ye can't move, laddie?"

"Remember the bookshop?" Aziraphale said, a twinge of annoyance in his voice. "Supernatural creature. I'm bound by certain spells, and summoning circles are one. Your little magic finger knocked me into one, sending me straight to Heaven."

"So that's how that worked," Shadwell said, grinning a bit smug as he pointed his hand like a finger gun.

"Just give me a glass of wine and ask for a favor, and I can move," Aziraphale sighed. He wondered how he'd get back to the shop, what with there nobody on the other end to pick up the phone; his old Bakelite didn't have an answering machine to travel to.

Crowley's cell did, though. That would work.

"Wine, dear? Does it matter what? Oh, should I jot down to the church and get what they use for the Eucharist?"

Aziraphale made a face. Even when blessed, the stuff wasn't that palatable. "I'm sure whatever you have on hand is fine."

"Just a mo', I'll see what we have in the pantry, and hm. A wish?"

"Something small," Aziraphale said. "If you want a major blessing I have to take tithe."

"Well, lesse, Shadwell's been complaining of a bad knee."

"You're not having the pansy set my bloody leg, harlot." The last word was said with so much love that for a brief moment, Azirapahle felt the circle expand a hair.

"I'll have you know **this pansy **is quite good at miracle healing, oh thank you," Aziraphale said, interrupting his own train of thought as Marjorie brought the glass to him. "This smells divine."

"Ah, my neighbor Betty's been getting into home brewing. Traded her a palm reading for two bottles. And yes, fix my idiot fiancee's leg."

"Can do," Aziraphale said, as he downed the glass, stretching his wings a hair more so as not to disturb anything in their cluttered kitchen. "May I bother you for a towel?"

* * *

"I don't like it," Shadwell grumbled.

"Well, complain to your soon to be wife, this was her wish. I am merely an agent of-"

"Hogwash, Fell, and you know it."

"I don't like seeing my friends in pain. If it flares up again, call me. I can't do major magic anymore, but little things are still on the table."

"Dress still looks stupid on you."

"Oh, trust me, I agree on that one, but it's the uniform."

"They kick you outta heaven but you still work for the bastards? When I die, if I end up up there I'm gonna punch out your boss for ye, how's that?"

Aziraphale should have said 'Heavens no, that's completely improper.'

He could have said nothing at all.

Instead, nodding to Shadwell before taking Former-Madame-Tracey-but-still-Madame-Tracey-to-her-Clients's phone, he grinned and told him: "Oh, it's entirely unnecessary, but if you wished to deck Gabriel into next week should you see him, I would be ever so grateful."

* * *

"'Lo? Potts?"

"Ah, hello, Crowley, so you did put Marjorie's number in your phone. I believe you also beat me back." Crowley made an unintelligible noise as he realized who'd actually called him.

"Sorta. Got my summoner with me."

"Through the phone lines? Are they ethereal?" Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "Please don't tell me you were summoned to Heaven or He-"

"Lsingborg," Crowley cut him off. "**Sweden**. Helsingborg, Angel. It was a random dialer. Kid wants to see his dead mom, pay any price. More than enough magic to pop us closer to use your circle to call Upstairs."

"You **didn't**!" Aziraphale accused.

"I haven't touched the sigil, Angel, and not his **soul**. He paid in a memory. Ugh it's giving me serious indigestion. Would you- first off, get back here, no… wait, wait, wait. This had to be some sort of- no Angel, use the word and I'm hanging up-"

"What, me being summoned to a somewhat competent spirit medium's house," Aziraphale commented, while Shadwell, affronted, silently mouthed 'somewhat?', "when you need to talk to the dead? **Ineffable**?"

An audible click sounded throughout the Potts-Shadwell kitchen. A few lanes down, Adam shuddered in his bed, unsure why.

Aziraphale started, positively flummoxed at Marjorie's phone. "He **hung up on me**!"

* * *

"Dear, you're asking me to commune with the dead? Also did I hear you kidnapped a child from **Sweden**?" Marjorie was tutting like a mother at Crowley and the demon was shrinking on the other end of the line. He hadn't been chastised, not like this, since, well, since his own Mother had done it.

"Look? He could have gotten Hastur. Or, I don't know, Lucifer himself. **Herself**. I can't remember what form they're taking right now. He got me, and I can't bring back a dead human soul. But you channeled Aziraphale without losing your head."

"Your pansy boyfriend fixed my bum knee," Shadwell piped, overhearing the conversation on speaker. "But asken**' **the devil into my harlot-"

Back in Soho, Crowley was a moment away from yanking the hair right out of his head. "**I'm **not asking to possess Potts, Witchfinder, I've got a perfectly good vessel and I'm wearing it now. I'm asking if she wouldn't mind coming up for a day or two and let some Swedish woman borrow her."

Marjorie clapped her hands together, delighted. "Will I talk in Swedish?" she asked gleeful. "Oh, I've always wanted to see Stockholm."

"I- uh, probably, the kid here doesn't really speak English. Not much. He knows 'hello', 'please', 'thank you' and 'fuck off', and no, I wasn't responsible for that one, though I kinda wish I were. But no, probably stay here in London. I'm not wasting more miracle energy teleporting people around. The rest of it will be to help maintain the connection, then send Axel home when it breaks. Clear?"

"Oh, crystal. But, demon, dear, it's late. Shadwell'll have to drive us up. I'm not sure Aziraphale will fit, wings or no, it's a two-seater."

"I can meet you two there, if you're going to come," Aziraphale said, rolling his neck in preparation for another trip down the literal information superhighway. "Off I pop, then," he added, and zoomed through the wireless signal back towards Crowley and home, though the two were much the same thing.


	6. An Axel to Grind (b)

TW: brief indirect mention of suicide.

* * *

Aziraphale, as always, tumbled out of the phone. At this point, Crowley had half a mind to ask him if he were doing it for the bumbling professor aesthetic he'd leaned so hard into, but the smear of mayo from his robes onto his favorite Persian rug said otherwise. Aziraphale's bumbling professor aesthetic wouldn't allow such a thing to be soiled, more so than the spill out of the cell phone signal. He was technologically adverse, not a complete Luddite.

"Oh dear, I'll have to find where I hid the steamer," Aziraphale bemoaned, as he stood up, fluttering his wings for balance before tucking them back into the ether. He'd get Crowley to fix them up proper after they put their little stowaway to bed.

"That's the gangel," Axel said, wide eyed. "I tried his ritual first."

"The **what**, my boy?" Aziraphale asked, hiking up his robe so as not to trail mayo on the floor, adjusting to Swedish with a minor miracle. He was still thankful his magic outside of summons hadn't dried up yet, but he wasn't pushing his luck with anything beyond what he couldn't possibly do without magic.

Not until he could get Michael to give him a straight answer on the topic. The head angel had been warming up slowly between plates of sushi and afternoon teas, but Azirapahle didn't have the audacity to try and get one of the very first Archangels, the only one who actually fought directly with Lucifer, utterly shitfaced. At least not yet, or until he asked to try 'that odd smelling liquid humans used in ritual for God" of his own accord.

Maybe Aziraphale could spin it into something holy. Crowley always praised him on his ability to wile of his own accord.

"Summoned with mayonnaise in a complex circle on the ground, your favorite book, and something to represent the Serpent of Eden, which Aziraphale thwarted in days of old," Axel said mechanically as if he'd recited from a pamphlet.

Aziraphale wished he was wearing his reading spectacles, if only so he could peer over them at Crowley.

"Don't look at me, I didn't write **that**," Crowley groused. "The packet in your shop's what I wrote. One of your fans must have blogged about it."

Aziraphale sighed, bringing the conversation back to its original topic. "No, the other word. My Swedish is rusty, I can't say I've heard the first word before."

"Gangel? It's not Swedish. Some woman from America wrote about it. Says he and his boss came to bless their wedding, **ew**."

"Gay angel," Crowley said with a smirk. "You're internet famous."

"Wait." Axel froze with realization and stared at the demon, who was fiddling with his sunglasses. "Crowley. You're not… the blog post said **Archangel **Crowley…"

"Don't get started, kid," Crowley hissed. "You're what, seven?"

"**Nine**. And I'm a kid, not stupid."

"Where was that sass earlier? Thought you were a rabbit about to bolt in that church." Crowley almost couldn't hide his pride. He did like the smart ones. There was a reason he liked Warlock so much growing up, and Axel felt a bit like him.

"I didn't think you were secretly an angel trying to scare me straight." Axel suppressed a yawn; it was late enough in London, and an hour later where they'd just come from.

Aziraphale leaned over, and with his free hand, pressed the sensitive spot where their four shoulders met with a little bit of his grace. Crowley's wings popped out like a jack-in-the-box.

He fled up the stairs to change and evade Crowley's gentle wrath as the demon sputtered obscenities before ratcheting in his occult appendages.

* * *

"Dear, flip on your back."

"Hurtssss."

"I can see that, you're blistering."

Aziraphale looked at the giant snake on one of his backroom sofas. He'd tucked Axel into a sofa that graciously became a comfortable pullout bed in his window office, greeted Shadwell and Marjorie when they'd finally pulled up to his shop the human way, and put them in his own barely-used bedroom for the night. Now, he was tending to Crowley with a bottle of terrible smelling ointment as the steamer warmed up to clean off the rug.

Aziraphale pulled on a pair of thick rubber gloves and carefully flipped Crowley over. "Not as bad as the church during the Blitz, but it's still tender. Your scutes are all out of sorts."

"He did desecrate the church, but not well," Crowley admitted, thankful when Aziraphale dropped on a large glob of the goo on his stomach. He flicked his tongue, tasting the air. "Sulphur?"

"Purson's special design; he touched one of Izzy's blessed crosses and kept a bottle on him since. Should ask him the recipe, but you'll have to make it. I can't touch the ointment directly, it burns me worse than a wasp sting. Is it helping?"

"Immensely. Wait, was she there when it happened?"

"No, but he told her he was a demon anyway. Told me he'd rather just admit it and damn the consequences. Apparently, she needed a lie down for a little while, then dragged his behind to church. **By the ear**."

Crowley wished he could have seen it, laughing internally before turning sour. "Wait, wouldn't he've gotten hurt?" He wiggled uncomfortably, wanting to roll over but not wanting to get the demonic ointment all over Aziraphale's sofa.

"She's Baptist. They don't believe in holy water, so…"

"Oh, he went in the meeting-house just fine?"

"Same way you can walk in a synagogue as long as you don't go touching the tabernacle's Torah, yes. He was completely unfazed walking inside. Even picked up a missile from the pew and read from it. Calmed her down enough. He then called me to speak to her directly. I reminded her she'd beseeched my help, and I only sent those I trusted. A fallen angel was **still an angel. **She was silent a few moments, thanked me for everything, and actually apologized to him!"

"No wonder she'd asked me specifically for him one time she needed a sitter," Crowley grunted as he wiggled himself back to human shape.

"I would assume it was the time after that incident, yes. But now she knows that only some of the people watching her son are angels. Incidentally, it's only cemented her belief in the Almighty further."

"Yeah, when you have a bunch of angels **and **demons on speed dial willing to watch your kid." Crowley groaned, the ointment hissing on his scales in a comfortable burn. "Thanks, by the way. Much better."

"It does look less inflamed. I'm going to go steam out the rug and give Metatron a call. You should probably shower off the medicine."

"You need your wings looked at."

"Not when you're still covered in that infernal ointment, I don't. 'Probably shower' means 'go shower right now', dear."

Crowley made an exasperated whine. "Fiiiiine. But wait for me for the call. I want to talk to Michael directly."

* * *

"You're going to preen me. **While I am talking with the Host**." Aziraphale cocked an eyebrow, glaring at a freshened-up Crowley. "Crowley, you do understand the implications?"

"It's because I do that I'm suggesting it," Crowley said, exasperated. "Just give them a ring, would you?"

"Very well." Aziraphale stretched his wings out, letting them trail like a cape as he pulled back the rug over his sigil, clapping hands to light the sound-activated LED ring he'd replaced his candles with after the Apoca-whoops, if only to put Crowley at ease. He pulled up two ottomans to the space just outside the circle, stretched out a wing for Crowley, bent his head forward, and prayed in silence in offering.

"Yes, Aziraphale?" Metatron's voice boomed, annoyed at him as the circle glowed to life.

"Can you connect me to Michael, please? I have a request."

"Even now, you still have the audacity to- what in Her name are you doing? That demon of yours is…!" Metatron asked, scandalized.

"'Allo!" Crowley cried cheerfully, looking upwards, a few loose feathers tucked in his hair and behind an ear. He scratched Aziraphale's patagium gently, forcing out an undignified noise from the angel. "Long time, no see, Megatron! You rolling out anytime soon?"

"**Metatron**. Just because you left the host doesn't give you the right to forget my name, worm."

"Snake," Crowley corrected. "And who says I forgot?" he added under his breath, chuckling at his own joke.

Metatron didn't breathe, human functions were beneath him, yet, somehow, he sighed. "Hang on, I think he's still in a meeting."

"Just let him know that he's holding up a summons," Aziraphale commented, voice cracking as Crowley teased a sore muscle. Gently, he reached back and slapped at Crowley's hand. "Crowley, be a dear and **stop that**."

The circle continued to glow, but the line went dead silent. Crowley went back to a normal preen as if nothing had ever happened.

"Dear," Aziraphale hissed. "What was that even about?"

Before he could explain, Michael's voice boomed through the circle, along with a vision of the top half of his body, his sharply cut suit showing off every curve, and his coif as polished as ever. Aziraphale finally made the connection he'd been fumbling with for years. Their hair was done practically the same way.

"**Gadreel**."

"Oh, come off it, you know as well as I do I haven't gone by that since before time was A Thing," Crowley took off his glasses and made a show of rolling his serpentine eyes.

"I hear a summons needs fulfilling?" Michael asked, getting straight to the point. "Understand I'm only doing this because Aziraphale's file is untouchable."

"Nobody said it was my file."

Michael glared. "I'm not helping a summons from Below. Go harass Beelzebub."

"Too bad," Crowley snapped. "I need to borrow a soul, and she's probably in heaven. If she isn't, I'll go knock on my old boss's office."

Michael twitched. "What for."

"Kid wanted to sell me his soul to bring his mom back. I don't do the impossible. I traded him a memento of hers for a chance to talk with her one more time. I don't deal in moving souls around. If he goes to hell, it'll be because he fucks up, not because of me."

Michael twisted his face a few moments. "You were summoned to make a deal with the devil and you didn't claim his soul?"

"Eeeyup. And if she's up there and I can't hold my end of the bargain, my office's summoning department will be knocking on yours in short order."

"Right." Michael huffed. "Aziraphale, you're helping this buffoon?"

"Well, I just got summoned for a blessing myself, so I didn't know this was going on."

Michael squinted, looking at something beyond the veil, before the connection picked up that he was scanning his data pad. "You… **were**. **Convenient**." He narrowed his eyes. "Very well, give me this woman's contact information and I'll see which registry she's in. But the next time I'm down there I expect you'll have a bottle of that beverage humans use when exalting Her Holiness. Lord knows you seem to be in her favor more than we are, and I can't fathom why. Maybe the altered mental state that drug brings about might help clear the mind."

"Ah," Azirapahle said, surprised and confused in a good way. "Yes, I can get us some wine."

"Very good. Gadreel?"

"Crowley," he corrected with a grunt.

"**Crowley**. Do you plan on having her use your own vessel, or do you have a means of channeling her?"

"I've got a spirit medium here."

"After we find this woman, contact us and have them enter the circle. We'll send her soul down for thirty six hours and no more."

"Thank you, Michael."

"How's the wing?" Michael asked uneasily, changing the topic before closing the communication.

"Aziraphale re-broke it for me a few millennia back and set it properly. One of the few demons who can fly, me."

"That's good."

"Still smarts like a bitch on rainy days."

Michael was silent a few moments. "Ah," he said, simply, then abruptly ended the connection.

"Wait. Crowley," Aziraphale said flustered. "You didn't… he didn't…"

"Yes, **angel**. I used to preen Michael in the Before Times. He was the one that broke my wing and tossed me out of Heaven, not that he realized I was me until after the business at the airbase- I've been trying to lay low from the tossers Upstairs. Bet you 50 quid he comes down to check on you to see me, too. Might be feeling a shred of guilt."

"Michael? **Guilty**?"

"I mean, he wants you to get him plastered. That's a start."

"You were his handmaid," Aziraphale said incredulously, as he processed the minor revelation.

"Yup."

"Didn't you make the stars? Isn't that something that… an angel of a higher station than a servant would do?"

"Only some. And he asked nicely, so I did."

Aziraphale's face went through five different expressions, trying to settle on something, anything. "Well, it explains the grooming, at least. And I don't just mean my feathers." Aziraphale gestured an arm towards Crowley's sharp, well fitting clothing. "Michael was always the most fastidious of the original angels with their hair. And clothing. Oh good lord, the personal servant of Michael's been tending to my wings for the last two years."

"Yup," Crowley said smugly.

"No wonder he's asked to see my wings."

"Yup."

"Do you… do you think he's jealous?"

"Yuuuup." Crowley grinned with too-sharp teeth.

"Crowley, I hope you don't mind me saying this, but I think I need a drink."

* * *

"You were Michael's personal servant."

"That's the seventh time you've said that, angel, and it's not going to change if you ask again."

"This explains so much."

Crowley rolled his eyes, pouring Aziraphale another finger of whisky, neat. "You've said that a bunch of times, too."

"I just don't know what else to say. Except, oh, isn't Michael's aspect a dragon?"

"As was mine, till they ripped out my limbs. **Let there be snakes**. May you spend your days slithering in the dirt and all that."

"I'll be honest, the few times I returned to the Host while working on Earth, I tried to do research. Figure out who you were when you…"

"When I was **Up There**." Crowley downed his shot- or pretended to, as the minute it went down, he sent it back into the bottle- the fourth already, and Aziraphale seemed like he'd want at least one more. He wanted to stay sober for this, just in case.

"I managed to wheedle the list out of Ezekiel. The names of all the Host who fell. And I spent years figuring out who became whom, or trying to. Like a big logic puzzle."

Aziraphale opened a desk drawer, pulling a key out from his neck. It glowed, quite literally so. He shoved it into the side of the drawer, into a spot between spaces, and the drawer split on an invisible seam. With a grunt, he took out a hand-bound book, thunking it on his desk.

"This is as far as I got. In the '80s- the 1980's that is- I finally stopped. I think the last of my doubts about you being anything but a kind person who was just in the wrong place were finally assuaged. It no longer felt right to pry."

"Well, I know who a few demons used to be. Not many. Want me to check your work?"

Crowley actually wanted to know something different about this centuries old tome.

Aziraphale smiled. "Now that I know who you are, you're not going to like what's in there."

"I'm not in it, am I?" Crowley asked, leafing through the tome, the former angels organized the way Heaven did it- by importance. Capital-A Archangels first, the only name there Samael, of course. Then the Seraphs- there was only a handful, and Aziraphale had assigned them to their new names; he'd found out Beelzebub's ages ago at a shroom-drunk rave, and he was on good enough terms with Asmodeus to ask if Aziraphale had been right.

The Cherubs came next, Crowley smirking as he'd found Dagon's old name and the long scrawl of notes of how Aziraphale came to that conclusion.

Thrones, Dominions, Virtues, Powers. Hastur had been named there, but no sign of Ligur.

Principalities, now, and there was Ligur's name and title, with evidence for why Azirapahle had connected the two.

Then the largest section, just because there were more of them to begin with. Archangels, lowercase a, the class and not the title. Odd how the highest rank and the second lowest held the same name in most Earth languages.

And then the book was done.

"In war, the hired help is never written in," Aziraphale bemoaned. Nobody in the records room even bothered listing who from the ninth choir was lost. Only one-to-eight."

"You cared."

"I thought you'd outranked me by miles," Aziraphale admitted. "But, I suppose it is easy enough to fix."

Aziraphale stood up, slightly wobbly, and sat at the vintage desk. He inhaled sharply. "It's almost six in the morning, about time I sobered, anyway," he admitted, as the bottle on the coffee table refilled. Carefully, he opened the tome to the back binding. "There's still one page left unfilled, you know."

Crowley watched as Aziraphale pulled out some truly ancient calligraphy equipment and began to write on the dark green back interior binding.

AN ACCOUNT OF ANGELS (NINTH OF NINE)

KNOWN LOSSES

GADREEL (occupation: servant of MICHAEL)

"Good enough? Or anything else?" Aziraphale asked.

"Reads like the rest of the entries." Crowley was trying to keep his emotions in check. He bit his tongue and just watched.

Aziraphale put the equipment away and switched to a beautifully made ballpoint pen to add in notes, as he'd done with every other entry.

**Demon name: Crowley**

**Evidence: I asked nicely.**

Aziraphale looked up at his closest and oldest friend. "Done."

Crowley fiddled with his Valentino's.

"Crowley?"

"Dusty old bookshop, this," he said, voice cracking.

"Oh, yes, quite. Was going to ask if you could dry the page and close the book for me?"

"Close… yes. Close it. I can do that."

Aziraphale took a hand in his. "Only if you want to, dear. Otherwise I will."

Crowley pulled his angel into a hug and sobbed on his shoulder, on his knees next to the old wooden desk. He'd have a terrible crick in his corporation's back later, but right now his legs weren't working correctly. Nor were his tear ducts.

* * *

"Hello, Axel," Marjorie said pleasantly as the group huddled around the fireplace for breakfast. Aziraphale hurried in with another tray, laden with tea and coffee this time. "Juice, my boy?"

"Thanks," he replied, staring at his feet.

"Oh, yeah, hang on a tic," Crowley said, snapping his fingers upwards. "Potts? Can you understand what I'm saying?"

"Course I can, love."

"Good because we're both speaking Swedish." He gave side eye to Shadwell and switched tongues. "Sorry, Sarge. I'm not wasting more of the magic I got from the trade on you. I can translate."

"**I**can translate. You have a summoner to appease," Aziraphale insisted, pouring apple juice for Axel, before handing Marjorie her tea and Shadwell and Crowley their coffees.

"Dear," Marjorie said, addressing the child. "Won't the rest of your family worry?"

Axel's pointed frown spoke volumes. "Grandparents dead. Mom was an only child. Didn't know my dad."

"Oh."

"Whatever. It's not a big deal."

"It very much is, young man!" Aziraphale insisted. "Even if they're not related to you by blood, having family to take care of you is important. I should know. Angels just sort of… well. Popping into existence isn't a bad analogy."

"I even had confetti," Crowley said with a small smile. "I got to see a few others after me, it was like a big balloon popped, and fwoosh, new eldritch horror! Wings and eyes and flaming wheels all over the place. Angels didn't do the whole two arms two legs thing until the Almighty started thinking about making humans. Inferiority complex, if you ask me."

"Why would I have to desecrate a church to get an angel?" Axel asked, looking down at his juice bur a bit too afraid to drink it.

"Not an angel. Not anymore," Crowley admitted. "Fallen. That's what we demons are. Like I said, you just got lucky you got me. And I'm not his boss, not really. Other way round is a bit closer to it all if you wanted to get technical. Aziraphale's just new to being summoned around by you mortal lot. I'm just moral support. **Amoral**, as it were."

"If it makes you feel better," Aziraphale said sternly, "your mother is in heaven. The Archangel Michael has agreed to let her come down. For 36 hours, and not a moment longer. Our friend Mz. Potts here is a spirit medium and will be channeling your mother so you can talk. Otherwise Crowley or I would need to mediate."

"I wanted her back," Axel cried. "What if I-" he started, eyeing the fireplace poker.

"Don't even think about finishing that sentence," Crowley warned. "Not everyone who does ends up in Hell but I would bet my left arm **you **would for being such a brat."

Axel snapped his mouth shut.

"There will be none of that kind of talk under my roof," Aziraphale insisted. "And while you and your mother have the chance to catch up, I will be doing some research to see who will be taking you in when it's done. I'm not sending an orphan back in the cold."

"It's May," Axel snipped.

"**Metaphorical **cold," Aziraphale huffed. "Now, come. Michael is already doing us a favor, I'm not keeping him waiting."

* * *

"Signe?" Aziraphale asked, as Marjorie's body collapsed in the center of the circle. It was still radiating a glow, so Aziraphale kept himself out, using his surprising angelic strength to keep Axel from running forward.

The woman opened her eyes. "She's adjusting." Marjorie dusted herself off as the last of the holy light dissipated. "I'm going to let her take charge, okay, Axel?"

Marjorie closed her eyes, breathing deeply. When they opened chest features shifted. "Oh. Oh God, Axel. My little sunflower."

Aziraphale let go and took a sharp step back, nearly squashing Crowley's snakeskin boot. The demon caught him by the collar of his waistcoat, setting him upright before running a hand to press hard at the space where their two sets of shoulders met. With a fwoosh that nearly knocked over a stack of books, Aziraphale's wings materialized.

Signe (well, Signe, borrowing Mz. Potts's body the same way Aziraphale had done nearly two years earlier) gasped.

"Is this how you were able to come find me, Axel? You clever child." Signe turned her attention back to Aziraphale, who was rolling his shoulders and neck in preparation to tuck his ethereal appendages away. "Angel, sir, I hope he hasn't given you trouble."

"Not in the slightest, ma'am. The two of you have a day and a half, and no longer. I'm going to look into how foster care works in your country and come up with some suggestions."

"**I'm **your chaperone," Crowley cut in, simply. "If you want to be driven somewhere, just let me know. You're in London, might be nice to do a bit of sightseeing together. I won't hover. Just need to make sure I don't lose you two."

"London? Oh, the woman I'm borrowing is giving me some suggestions. The National museum and a spot of high tea?"

Crowley shrugged. "Whatever you two want. I'm just the driver and your personal ATM."

"I… this is a bookstore, isn't it?" Do you have any chapter books?"

"Not much in Swedish, I'm afraid," Aziraphale commented. "Most of this is English or ancient tongues. Hebrew, Aramaic, Greek, the like."

"Do you have a kitchen?"

"Does the angel with a food problem have a kitchen," Crowley deadpanned under his breath.

"Why, yes, of course," Aziraphale said with a smile.

"Axel, why don't we make some lussekatter? It's probably out of season…"

Axel wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "Okay." He said shakily. "You're not too tired?"

"Axel, I'm a memory," Signe said, squatting to his level. "The woman who's helping me is spry as a fox, so I am too. Let's bake, and you can tell me all about how class has been, okay? You still having fun in science class? The last time we got to talk you were working on your fair project."

"I quit."

Signe pursed her mouth into a small frown. She wanted to say something, but she knew why he'd left his favorite subject in the dust. "Well, why don't you save the idea? There's always another science fair next year. Come on, then. Tell me some more of your history teacher's bad jokes." Gently, she took his hand and squeezed. Aziraphale nodded silently, and led them to his kitchen. He knew that he had enough saffron for perfect lussekatter. His cupboards wouldn't have anything less.


	7. Fraternization

"Chin up."

"Do I ever slouch?"

"No, but I'm trying to piss Michael off. Chin up. Wings?"

"**Crowley**."

"**Wings**," Crowley insisted.

Crowley took a large step back as Aziraphale sighed, putting up only token resistance as his wings shimmered out from the ether.

"Blinding. **Perfect**," Crowley said, rubbing his hands together before he absentmindedly fixed a few errant feathers.

"You are an insufferable twat."

"**Your**insufferable twat."

"Better mine than Michael's," Aziraphale whispered conspiratorially into Crowley's ear. "And if my wings are out, yours too."

Crowley touched his toes, groaning with the stretch as he pulled his own out of the ether. "It's too damn hot," he whined. "And I'm a **snake**."

"Pish-posh," Aziraphale tutted, smoothing out the scapulars poking though Crowley's jacket. "I'll whip up some lemonade if you want, then."

"Spiked."

"Anything less?"

Crowley fidgeted, alone in the bookshop waiting for his long since former boss. The incident with Axel had been nearly two weeks ago (Aziraphale hard at work outside of normal shop hours vetting the boy a family, wiring the boy money and both of them mailing an interesting daily trinket); the muggy stickiness of June was settling quickly in London. More so in a bookshop that didn't have A.C., as Aziraphale used only enough magic to make sure the humidity wouldn't be affecting the tomes.

"Hey, angel," Crowley called out. "Might be time I summoned you to make sure you've got enough magic to keep this place reasonable for the summer."

"Hm? Oh, yes, it is only going to get worse isn't it? I don't think I've ever been in the same room as being summoned. I wonder what that's like."

"It feels like taking a big step, probably," Crowley said with a shrug directed at nothing but the Steinbecks in front of him. "Zira, your carpet's glowing."

"Pull it aside with the fire poker, dear," Aziraphale called out. "Easier to fix a hole in it than miracle a new one if it disintegrates."

"Done and done," Crowley said, grunting with minor exertion as the circle grew white hot with holy light just as he'd gotten the old rug out of the way.

Michael stepped forward, a slight nod to Crowley as he did so.

Crowley merely grinned, cracking his knuckles. "Ready for a glorious night of doing nothing?"

* * *

"This smells even worse up close," Michael said, wrinkling his nose, sitting stiffly on a settee, poorly hiding glances at Aziraphale's wings draped over the armchair behind him. "Or is my corporation not working properly?" He uncharacteristically awkwardly pushed the wineglass full of Riesling around in front of him on the coffee table.

"It can be something of an acquired taste," Aziraphale said lightly, not as worried as he'd be if Gabriel stepped foot in his home again, but still on edge.

Michael was never his supervisor, despite human belief that he was the leader of God's armies against Satan (in reality, Gabriel's wheelhouse). Not that Michael wasn't a fighter- he did have the distinction of personally kicking that-who-would-be-Lucifer out of Heaven. It was just that his actual job was dealing with mounds of paperwork.

Soul sorting. The sort of drudgery Azirapahle was extremely glad he never had to deal with. He'd been made a warrior, then a field agent once the mess Upstairs had been dealt with and humans would be on the table.

"Maybe I should adjust? My corporation, I mean," Michael asked, sitting ramrod straight in the chair.

"Oh, for Someone's sake, Mike, it's a settee. **Sit in it**. Right now your ass is only roughly making an acquaintance with the cushion. Tell me you know how to lounge." He made a grand show of stretching himself even more serpentine on his own perch, melting into his sofa. "'N if wine ain't your thing, Zira whipped up some lemon vodka. Same principle, different liquor."

"I can get out some mead, as well, if you like, that's a bit more ceremonial than vodka ever was," Aziraphale tittered nervously. "Either way, get yourself comfortable. If you'd rather shed your corporation for something a little more ethereal, I don't mind. The shop wards prevent mortals from seeing anything they shouldn't, and I've drawn the curtains."

"The wards are fading," Michael said, curtly. "When were they applied last?"

"A… about two years ago, sir."

"And you haven't fixed them up again, because?"

Aziraphale looked to Crowley, testing the waters. "I… Er. I'm trying to not waste miracles. As I'm not part of the Host, I figured I would eventually be shut off, and…"

"If you were to have your Grace cut, we would have done it already," Michael snipped.

"Ah- oh! Oh!" Azirapahle said, almost dropping his own glass. "No restrictions? None at all?"

"No more than you had as a Principality. To be frank, and this is **extremely off the books**, mind, Gabriel's terrified. You technically aren't under his department anymore. You're demoted down to angel, **guardian **angel, as you might have noticed, and thus, under Anael. Who, in turn, is under me."

"I can't say I ever even met her when I was upstairs."

"Most of the higher ups don't associate with her. Dealing with the mortals down on earth is seen as a bit unclean, mind."

Michael's eyes trailed back to Aziraphale's gorgeously pristine wings.

"Not that you are," he added with a grumble.

Aziraphale sat, dumbstruck, staring at Michael a solid minute, before clapping his palms on his side. "Right then. Let me just grab the mead. I have a bottle sitting in storage from some Viking invaders way back when," he said, simply, giving a side eye to Crowley.

"Oi, don't go looking at me, I **hate **boats."

* * *

Aziraphale sat on the wooden cellar steps in silence, the bottle of mead found quickly enough. Aziraphale had half a mind to tuck his wings back away, their purpose in reminding Michael who was dealing with whom long since taken care of.

**Two years**.

Two years, he lived like a… like a human! Dealing with the heat and the cold as mortals did, selling off a few of his books to pay for things as his savings ran dry. No, he didn't sleep, and he could certainly have cut back on dinners- especially dinners out- but he enjoyed it too much.

He didn't have to turn to being a guardian angel to do any of that. He could have just been himself- more so, even with heaven off his back.

And yet.

And yet. He actually enjoyed his demotion, emotionally draining as it was sometimes. He'd been a field agent for six millennia, sure, but it had never been as **personal **as it-

An uncharacteristically high pitched yelp from above snapped him from his thoughts. Quickly, he grabbed the bottle, brandishing it like a weapon as he flung himself up to the shop floor.

Michael had finally materialized his wings an impressive mass of six luxurious pearlescent feathered appendages; Crowley loomed over him, a massive grin, two fingers pressed at the shoulder. "Missed this, didja? Get someone from Downstairs to make sure my own tap's not shut off and…"

"Stop and I'll smite you, demon," Michael hissed, a bit of forked dragon tongue visible if one knew to look. Aziraphale recognized that tone. It wasn't malicious in the slightest.

It was the same one he'd use with his friend daily.

* * *

"'N then, 'n then you're the one who brought down the 'loody holy water!" Crowley said, accusingly, brandishing an empty glass that had, until a minute ago, contained a pint of mead. He might not have been present at his own execution, but he knew enough from Aziraphale to talk about it.

"Wanted to be there," Michael said. "Wanted to see the demon w'd go and give hell the what-for." Michael's wings glowed- literally- trailing abalone pearlescent feathers along the back of the settee and down to the floor. His shoulders relaxed (all eight of them), he sipped the mead contemplatively. He was on his second glass to his new companions four or five. Two was enough, he noted. Enough to let the worry slough off, not enough to impair like the two in front of him, who were slowly devolving into a fairly humorous panto.

"Got an eyeful, did'cha?"

"Didn't even realize who you were at first," Michael said between slow sips. "And then, when I did… I knew I couldn't stay. Busied myself with the idea that at least- hic- least you'd go out a traitor to Hell 'n all." Michael looked down at the floor, avoiding eye contact with the both of them.

"'N don't say that's better. Heaven, I mean," Aziraphale moaned. "Cause… cause Heaven can… can fuck right off, too."

Crowley and Michael fixed Aziraphale a matching shocked expression each.

"I mean, Heaven doesn't care about t'umans any more'r less'n Hell does," Aziraphale continued, before doubling over. He quickly put his glass down on an end table before it slipped from his grasp.

"You've had enough," Michael warmed, before realizing Aziraphale's discomfort wasn't caused by the alcohol. In a moment, all that was left of him was a pool of clothing on the floor.

Crowley bit his tongue, also clutching his chest. "'N me too…" he whined. Michael snatched his glass away just before all that was left of the demon was fabric on the sofa.

* * *

"…I **thibk**," Crowley slurred, as his whole body felt pleasantly warm. He smelled blood under him- not human, but too drunk to place the species- and luxuriated in a properly made circle. "'M not sobering up for this," he muttered, as someone in a white toga- or toga-esque bedsheet, hard to tell, leaned forward.

"Fuckin' worked!" the mildly intoxicated twentysomething cried out. "Steve, lookit, fuckin' worked!"

Crowley took one look at their attire and realized he hadn't gone back in time- real togas used far more material than that- but had arrived at an American university's frat party. A large stuffed blue bird in a yellow sweatshirt emblazoned with the letters U and D sat atop a shelf, which would have been a hint if Crowley cared about American schools. He probably would in four years, when Warlock were picking one out. But not now.

Crowley didn't want to give himself the mental capacity to figure out what the letters on the cheap mascot stood for. University of Something, probably. Dorks? Dweebs? Doofuses (Doofi)? Dickheads?

"Thissss isss a frat housssse," Crowley drawled, curling upright with a meter or so stretched out and up. "You'd better have wine that isssssn't shit."

"Crowley, be quiet. 'M trying to sober myself here and I can't- can't sense where the bottle is."

Crowley swiveled, eyeing the circle in squeeze mayo directly next to his own. Aziraphale frowned, huffing, meeting him eye for eye.

* * *

"Fight! Fight! Fight!" screamed the inebriated frat boys, and a number of girls in varying states of undress and Halloween-esque interpretations of Greek attire.

"It's **June**," Crowley hissed at Aziraphale. "Aren't they supposed to be out of uni in the States?"

"Maybe not all schools," Aziraphale narrowed his eyes as someone shoved a solo cup full of cheap wine in his hands. "Hey! Excuse me, I'm not a djinn. I don't have to accept your trade."

"You don't want to beat up a demon?" The young adult asked, almost confused. He wore a wreath made of plastic laurels, looking sideways and down at Crowley in the circle next to him.

Aziraphale scoffed. "Pish-posh. Humans don't tell me who I should or shouldn't be smiting. How did you manage this, anyway? I don't get called every time someone drops a jar of condiments on the floor."

The frat boy frowned leaning closer. "I have a grand on you taking out the demon. Please. I'm in enough student debt as it is. Normally the frats and sororities fight playing Goalball during Blind Sports Day, but…"

"And you're **gambling**?" Aziraphale cut the college student off, irate, as he snatched the cup of wine from the boy's hands. "Be glad I have a little aggression I want to work out." Azirapahle slung back the wine- not nearly as bad as he was expecting- and fluffed out his wings. "Fiend, come and fight me."

"Oi, since when were you ever an angry drunk?" Crowley whined in Enochian, before switching to English. "Humans, if you want me to fight him someone's stepping forward as a sacrifice. If the prat- I mean frat- summoned the angel, then it looks like I'm the patron demon of some sisters? You go giiiiiirls!"

Someone dropped a foam plate full of fried food.

"Oh, come off, just need a nip of someone's finger. You're asking me to fight an angel, not kill someone. I'd do it for free, but rule's rules."

Crowley lashed out, and before she could even register it, he took a nip of a sorority girl's pinky, healing it as soon as he'd taken what he needed.

"Someone's giving me a toga, unless you want to get an eyeful of demon dick," Crowley hollered to the shocked crowd. "**Now**."

"Crowley you don't even have a-"

A white topsheet was thrown into the center of the frat house's living room, now cleared of party goers and cheap ikea furniture. Crowley grew upwards like a tree, grabbing the sheet as soon as he had hands, tying it up and throwing the loose end over a shoulder before manifesting his wings, letting his red hair flow down in loose curling waves down his back.

He bit his thumb.

"Did you… did you just **bite your thumb**?" Aziraphale asked, in shock as Crowley mantled his wings for a fistfight.

"I bite my thumb, sir."

"At **me**?"

"Tis a crime if I say aye, sir?" Crowley said with a grin, adding, "You wanna fucking **go**, sir?"

Aziraphale mantled aggressively in response, and leapt forward, knocking the wind (unneeded though it was) out of Crowley, pinning him to the floorboards.

"Two years!" Aziraphale shouted in his face, ignoring the throng of started but interested college students, watching in the same way one watches a automotive wreck. "I spent two years in fear they'd stripped it all."

"No fucking joke," Crowley cried back. "They could have… they could have fucking said something! Fuck Michael!"

Crowley materialized his scales onto his human-ish skin, and slid out from Azirapahle's grasp, decking him in the cheek and rolling them both so he was on top of the angel now.

"And I was fucking called to a random dial. Which means someone Below either hates me…"

"Or is looking out for you," Aziraphale finished for him as he grabbed fistfuls of red curls to yank. Startled, Crowley rolled off, his sheet caught in Aziraphale's wings. "Should grow your hair out again," Aziraphale whispered casually in Enochian. "Looks nice."

"Don't fucking go there," Crowley purred in Aziraphale's ear.

"Are you fighting or having sex?" a random frat boy heckled.

"I'm asexual!" they both shouted in unison. "He doesn't even have a penis!" Azirapahle added, drunk and laughing. This felt like they were back a few millennia earlier, using the mud wrestling pits as an excuse to talk in public without their sides finding anything remiss. Aziraphale was 'blending in', Crowley was tempting. They had Efforts back then, Aziraphale recalled, if only because the fighting was done toga off. They were horribly heavy, and not made out of one cheap IKEA poly-cotton sheet.

"Yeah well, you don't either," Crowley grunted, trying to twist out of a hair hold, his poorly tied sheet twisting until it slid right off.

"**Which** one of us didn't understand that having only one unicorn on the Ark meant that propagation wouldn't happen?" Aziraphale sing-songed.

"If this ends up on TikTok…" Crowley snarled, as Aziraphale, through n onslaught of giggles, snapped him in a properly fitting toga. "And now I can't move, this is cheating."

"No, **this** is," Aziraphale said, grinning madly as he dove for a foot to tickle.

"Fucking… fuck in Hell!" Crowley cried, flailing as he slipped on his shorn IKEA sheet, covered in mayonnaise on the underside. He slid, landing in a pile of sheets, fine toga linen, his own wings, and a fit of laughter.

"Fuck, yield, yield, yield!" Crowley cried out between giggles.

Aziraphale flung himself on top, like one does when they see a perfectly good bean bag chair that must be flopped on.

"Wine!" Crowley cried. "Tributes are demanded!"

"Insufferable twat," Aziraphale said affectionately as the college students started to dare get close.

"You two… know each other," one of the sorority girls said, shocked.

"Never met this asshole before, nope," Crowley deadpanned.

"He practically lives in my house," Aziraphale said brightly at the same time. "Oh thank you, dear," he added, accepting the cheap white wine in another plastic cup, swirling it until it became Pape.

Crowley narrowed his eyes. "Mouths and gift horses, angel."

"Oh, yes, quite," he said sheepish, rolling off Crowley and turning the wine back to Trader Joe's'.

"Just don't go telling our bosses," Crowley groused as a few sorority girls helped him up and offered a brush to take out the tangles manifesting in his long mane. "They're not keen that we're actually fraternizing."

* * *

"Angel, you're going to help them **clean**?"

"Oh, Crowley, dear, they invited us all the way out here. I can't be a bad guest. And look how well the girls did your hair."

"'S'nice," Crowley admitted. "Could use a few more slumber parties. But just because you know your magic isn't off, doesn't mean you can go and just blow out a wave of miracles."

"Yes, yes, my power isn't unlimited. But it seemed like I wanted that fight. See? Still have some residual magic from the summons."

Azirapahle fanned our his wings, still hazy with a little remaining glow.

"We both needed it," Crowley admitted with a yawn. "Tell me the only other thing you did was give everyone at the party good dreams."

"Well…" Aziraphale stood sheepish.

"**Angel**."

"I might've… er… convinces a few local heirs to make a few new scholarships for the graduating class."

"Local heirs? What is this, a Dickens novel?"

"Right first letter, wrong country."

"I know that much. Figured this was America."

"**DuPont**," Azirapahle said pointedly, as he scanned the mass of sleeping, hung over students. "I gathered we were in Delaware. They own half the territory as it is. A few of them suddenly wanting to donate more to the school in a bid for a tax break wouldn't be remiss. And I didn't force. Just planted the idea in enough of their heads. I know at least one will put their money where their mouth is. And here."

Aziraphale plucked a cell phone out of a sorority girl's fanny pack and passed it to Crowley, going from dead to full charge as he lifted it off her person.

Crowley froze, looking at the clock. Five AM, and in an earlier time zone than back home.

"Isn't Mike still in the shop?" Crowley asked in a panic as he dialed his own number.

* * *

"Fu—Michael." Aziraphale righted himself, Crowley helping him up. Aziraphale has already sobered off the cheap wine they'd drunk with the students, and any mead left in his system finally could return to the bottle on his coffee table. "Dreadfully sorry."

Michael waved his data pad. "You were summoned to… Newark, Delaware to… fight a demon. Hm. I wonder if I asked Below if someone else was summoned to Newark, Delaware to beat up an angel." He quirked his mouth into a small smile as he carefully closed a copy of the Great Gatsby- a third edition, thankfully, and one with water damage when Aziraphale had gotten it. "It's Sunday, today, no? I've heard humans do this thing after church called a brunch."

"Ah- ah, yes. Though it does include more alcohol, to chase away the hangover incurred on Saturday nights."

"You can tell me to go back whenever you wish, Aziraphale. **I'm **not your boss. Not directly."

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other. "Maybe let's lose the robes," Crowley said, shaking himself like a dog to tuck away his wings. "But then you're going to spill everything you know."

Michael deadpanned. "Oh dear, being threatened and interrogated by a demon. I am truly frightened."

"Better be, Mike," Crowley said, grinning with too many teeth.

* * *

"Are you going to try it, Anna?"

"Are you cray? Whose fucking idea was it to summon a demon at the annual graduation bacchanal anyway?"

"That sophomore By suggested it. The math nerd. Well, she's a junior now, right?"

The two girls looked at each other. "They were nice, and didn't we have like… ten cases of some fancy champagne in our common room when we go back?"

"Didn't Lizzie say her loan company called her to say she owed negative money?"

"I still swear to god that had to have been one bad dream," Anna admitted. "I mean, nobody has a single photo of the whole night."

"Well, that weird number is still on your phone. You think the angel or demon called someone on it?"

"Okay, okay, fine. I'll dial."

* * *

Crowley squinted at the number. "Oh no."

"What."

"American. Delaware area code."

"Pick it up," Aziraphale said. "It's been a year, hasn't it?"

"Demonic summoning, main office, how may I put you on hold?" Crowley said in a deep baritone as he answered, before immediately snapping "Never Gonna Give You Up" into the receiver. Aziraphale could barely contain his mirth.

"Did Hell just Rickroll us?" a girls voice asked over speaker.

"Hell is Rickrolling us," a girl's voice affirmed. "Oh no, this is an international call, my mom's gonna-"

"Ashtoreth speaking," Crowley said, cutting the music short as he switched to a lithe Scottish woman's voice. "How may I not help you today?"

"Oh god," one of the girls hissed.

"Then I do believe you have the wrong number, love."

Azirapahle was doing his best not to laugh. Feeling his own emotions get close to betraying him, he cast a miracle on himself to hold it in, at least until Crowley hung up.

"No, no, no, wait. There was a demon."

"There are a lot of those, dear, you'll have to be a bit more specific. Are you trying to curse an ex? Rain hellfire on an enemy?"

"Smite an angel," one of them said, shakily.

"That's a tall order, love. Not many demons would be willing. Most don't come back after dealing with the blessed creatures."

"Crowley did. That was his name, right?"

"Hang on a moment, love, let me check the records." Crowley looked up to Aziraphale and mimed reading a book. Aziraphale passed down something- an old encyclopedia, big and heavy and-

-**thunk**. It landed with a thud on the coffee table. Crowley loudly leaned through it at random. "Ah, yes. He fought with a… oh my badness, with a Principality and escaped. Coward, but in that situation just surviving is impressive. Looks like the tussle was with Aziraphale."

"That's the angel Kappa Alpha got, isn't it?" one hissed to the other. "Yeah. Our… our rivals summoned an angel by that name. We want Crowley back for a rematch."

"Ah, a coven of witches then, splendid. Just do what you did last time, he should have no trouble showing up."

"We've gotta ask Byleth what she did," one hissed. Crowley nearly dropped the book on his foot. Louder, she added, "if we were to say… do a bit of snooping. How would we?"

"Snooping, how, dearie? Want to scope out the blessed enemy?"

"Something like that."

"Oh, just call Heaven then, let me see if I have their number. Just be your curious human self and the angels'll sing out everything your little witchy heart would want to know. I hope you have a quill and parchment handy, dear." Crowley grinned, made direct eye contact with Aziraphale, told the two sorority girls the number to Azirapahle's private backroom Bakelite line, said a few more not-so pleasantries, and hung up.

Aziraphale bawled with laughter until his own phone rang, muttering a Welsh accent as he went to grab the receiver.

"'Eaven'ly summ'ns, 'ow may I 'elp ye?"

Crowley tutted to himself. "Byleth, I'd owe you a drink if you'd take it, you crazy hag."


	8. Cult-de-Sac

tw- homophobia

Aziraphale gets summoned by a cult. He doesn't handle it well.

* * *

Just Over Two Months after the [First] Collective Night of Debauchery in Delaware (and three days before some Very Important Birthdays in August):

Aziraphale fluttered his wings. Now that he was used to being called on command, he had a few tricks to figure out as much as he could about his predicament before anyone could say a word.

The fluttering was a nice little stretch, sure- he'd more recently pulled his wings out far more often than he used to, between Crowley and the small number of humans who knew what he really was, and using a miracle or fifteen to go out flying- but it also served as a quick test of the size and strength of the circle he was bound to.

He'd yet to force himself out of one- he hadn't received a request he didn't want to grant, so far at least- but it was still important to know how strong the bond was.

This one was of decent size, about two and a half meters in diameter- but very weak. Aziraphale pulled his wings in a little to keep himself from accidentally cracking the spell open. He knew he could still use some miracles to appease his summoner should he break it on accident- he did enjoy the work, after all, especially given both Michael's blessing on the matter and Gabriel's utter disdain.

Every time Aziraphale did something for his summoners he imagined not just the happiness of the recipient but precisely how red faced and annoyed his former boss would be.

Petty? Oh, most certainly. But **delicious**, like curling up in the shop with his favorite demon, slowly tearing through a box of good bonbons and a hot toddy on a cold December night.

Given the weakness of the barrier, Aziraphale didn't even go to step two- pace around the circle if he had the space to do so. Instead, he quickly scanned the room, adjusting to the blackness. Whoever had summoned him had killed the lights, or didn't have any.

Aziraphale crossed lack of electricity off his list quickly enough- he could feel a soft ruffle in his feathers despite tile under his feet. He was indoors, and a fan or air conditioning unit was running.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and miracled himself infrared vision. Six people… most likely women, based on their heat signatures. Aziraphale had as much as he could go on, and spoke.

"Ladies. I know the electricity's running. A few lights wouldn't go remiss."

A small torchlight appeared, Aziraphale recognized it as the light function on a cellphone. A moment later, a row of harsh fluorescent bulbs flickered on.

Aziraphale immediately recognized it as a cafeteria. School cafeteria, likely. A live snake- ball python, if Aziraphale remembered correctly what Crowley had taught him about the species kept as pets- was curled in a terrarium just outside the exacting and well made circle.

A copy of the King James was on the opposing side.

All six people were in thick, body obscuring robes.

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. He wasn't expecting this, at least not for him. Crowley, for certain, but not for an angel.

He crossed his arms indignantly. "You're a cult, aren't you?"

* * *

"Pass me a chair," Aziraphale demanded snippily. "We might be here a while."

It was hard to tell the expressions of his captors, but he kept his infrared vision, at least for now. Seeing double was a bit much, but the change in heat signatures gave him a bit of a clue when the …women? were riled by what he said.

"No."

"You summoned me. So long as you don't disturb the sigils, you can pass things to me. You called me here, you should know you will have to reach in to pass me a glass of wine to seal the arrangement. I can't fulfill your wish or leave until you do."

The upright bundles of fabric converged on each other, whispering, before one of them reached over and grabbed a blue plastic cafeteria chair, lifting it over the lines to pass inward.

"Thank you." Aziraphale planted it where he stood, the central circle free of markings, straddling it and folding his wings high up on his back. "Now, how may I assist?"

The room went silent, save the ticking of a wall clock. Aziraphale quickly flicked his eyes to it. It was one-fifteen, so he was either six hours behind or six ahead his time back home in London.

The American accents put him in Central time then. He didn't think he was in India or Eastern Europe, at the very least.

"Now, tell me why you would come into a school cafeteria at the witching hour on a weeknight to summon me." Aziraphale rhythmically tapped his fingers on the chair back.

"We've summoned you here, and you're bound to our circle," one demanded. Definitely female.

Aziraphale sighed. "That's not quite how it works, dear. The circle called me here, but I'm not **obligated **to grant your wish." Under his breath he added, "Might affect my performance review, though, if Anael's department does them."

"You stretched out your wings and they were stuck."

"I'm also extraordinarily old," Aziraphale said, bored. "I certainly don't mind waiting a decade or three for you all to die off and the ward fades. Though I'd assume, given the place you decided to summon me, I'll be found sooner than that. If school's not in session I just need to wait a few weeks before the children wonder why there's a gentleman with very realistic wings sitting in the middle of a mayonnaise circle. Hardly an eye blink in the greater scheme of things. Now, what's the request? If you're asking me to kill someone on your behalf, I don't do smitings. You're quite out of luck."

"Stop talking to our children."

"Stop-**what**? I haven't been summoned by any American children. At least none without their parents knowing about it," Aziraphale said, confused, frowning. Did Joshua summoning him with Izzy count? "You must have me confused with someone else. Oh, dear. I hope it's not a demon. Wouldn't be Crowley. If you can describe them, that I might actually be able to assist with. Sorry for being so standoffish, friends. I've never been summoned by people in robe-"

One of the women brandished a paper packet of printouts, cutting Aziraphale off with a mighty rustle.

"My summoning instructions?" Aziraphale asked quizzically peering at the top sheet. "Yes, those are mine. But I've only been summoned by one American child in the last year. With his mother present. So unless I'm wrong about the lo-"

"These **are **yours then?"

"Why, yes, didn't you use them to get me?" Aziraphale asked, sweeping a hand towards the circle on the floor. "Most angelic summonings require chalk. I'm a bit of a special case."

"Because the mayonnaise represents semen," another woman's voice cut in.

"It… it **what**?" Aziraphale asked, affronted. "Well, that's news to me, seeing as I designed it."

"Aziraphale. Principality. Patron saint of the… homosexuals," the woman brandishing the paper read out angrily. "'Helped my brother become the man he was supposed to be', says one, with before and after photos of… of…"

Aziraphale cut her off. "Of a young man finally comfortable in his body?" he asked, agitated. "I'm sure my blessing of a lesbian marriage is listed there too. And helping a young non-binary teenager in Canada leave their parents to stay with their, in my professional opinion, more Jesus-like uncle. That's what this is about, isn't it? No, I haven't spoken to your children. But I'll assume they've prayed to me. I don't exactly approve of idolatry, mind-"

"You're going to shut your mouth, demon in sheep's clothing, and keep your filthy tendrils away!"

The woman held a cross aloft while another took a bucket, filling a massive pump water gun with it.

"Ah. You called me here to exorcise me," Azirapahle said, bemused. "Do your worst, then. See how your bigotry stands up. Go on. You do realize if I were a demon, that gun is as good as carrying lead slugs. You would kill?"

"I would **save**," the woman screamed as she took aim and shot at Azirapahle. The worst that happened is now, not only did he have mayonnaise on his feet, he now had mayonnaise on his feet **and** was sopping wet for the trouble. Aziraphale dragged a foot through the sigil, wiping out the little remaining power, drawing his wings out completely, setting them aflame with holy fire for added effect, and to warm him up. The holy water must have been laced with holy ice cubes, because it was **freezing **for August.

"I don't think you understand how saving people works. Judge not, no?"

Aziraphale set himself completely on fire, if only to dry off his wet robes and satiate his fury. Making the women wet themselves and run for the door- which he conveniently locked with a thought- was a wonderful bonus. He'd never really enjoyed scaring the humans in the older days of appearing before them wreathed in wheels of fire and all his eyes on his corporation, but for these arseholes he'd make an exception.

"I'll leave you with some parting words, my friends. When you get a moment, please read up on King James. The chap was **gloriously **gay." With an angry wave, he unlocked the door with a loud click, and the women fled.

Aziraphale exhaled, a white hot jet of flame escaping his mouth as he slowly allowed himself to cool off, figuratively and literally.

In a burst of realization, his flames evaporated. "**Shit**. Those children!"

Aziraphale swallowed spit as he paced, scratching at his myriad of extra eyes that had coalesced on his form in his haste. He pressed fingers on a few, willing them away as he cleared off his infrared sight. An infinitum of eyes, that he was used to, at least.

"I don't even know where I am," Aziraphale bemoaned, willing off most, but not all, the extra eyes. "Bugger. Can't even completely clear this damnable corporation. Something to calm me down," he muttered to the floor. "I should call Crowley."

He walked uneasily out of the lunchroom, scanning through the hallways. **Something **would tell him where he was.

Ah, an administrative office. With a flick, the door yielded. He grabbed a phone and dialed, remembering the correct country code to route back to England. For some miraculous reason, the international call charges would be waived from their next bill.

**Voicemail**. To be fair, it was now about eight in the morning back home, Crowley would be dead to the world in a deep slumber.

"Crowley, this is Azirapahle. Don't try this number, it's a public phone. I'll try a few friends of ours first and call again. I'm unharmed, but I worry about the children of the people who… oh dear that'll set you off. No-one is in any physical danger. I'll try again in a bit."

Azirapahle hung up the desk phone and sighed, ticking off digits for someone who knew would be up at this hour, thanks to time zones and where they were located.

"Ello, ello?"

"Ah, Purson. It's Aziraphale."

"Wot'chu doing in bloody Texas, mun?"

"Ah. Texas. Well that does explain a fair deal."

"Buncha Evangelical tossers get'cha?"

"Unfortunately, seems like," Aziraphale sighed. "And I think I cocked this one up."

"'Ang on, mun. Leavin' me phone here so I can nip home when I'm done."

"Leaving your-" Aziraphale nearly dropped the receiver on the floor as a pile of cockroaches began flooding out of it.

"**Drama queen**," Azirapahle tutted as Purson began to reassemble himself from the pile of bugs.

"Oi, I make myself tiny for the kiddo, 'n grow big **after **I put meself back t'gether. No complainin', Dove."

"Mhmm. Sounds like Izzy won't need you much longer. She's a manager of that restaurant now, isn't she."

"Gave the owner a bit o' a nudge on that one, I did. Didn't realize it would mean less sittin' or I might've not. Kid's got a bit o' magic innit. Izzy'll find out soon 'nuff I s'ppose. Talk t'me Dove. What 'appened? You don't look in trouble 'n nothin's ablaze."

Purson patted himself down, scuffing an expensive-looking wing-tipped shoe on the tile as he adjusted his jacket tails.

Aziraphale sat, playing with some of the drape from his robes as he recounted the incident with the mothers. "I let my anger get the best of me," Aziraphale sighed out. "The last I need is a reprimand from Heaven."

"Least it ain't one from Hell," Purson shrugged. "From th' sound of it you lot get 'em way more, but when my lot do, well, it's way worse."

"Let's… not compare bosses, if you don't mind."

"Er, righty-o. Sorry, mate. Yer worried about the kids."

"Teenagers, by the sound of it, but, yes. Why is it so hard to understand that love is love? Oh, I can't say I wasn't guilty of it too," Aziraphale complained, looking at the demon making himself comfortable on a cheap office sofa. "A few scant years ago I might have smote you on sight."

Purson huffed out a harsh sound Aziraphale knew from experience was a laugh. "Can't say it'd be much diff'rent, dove. Yet, 'ere we are. You got me the holy water I asked fer, yeah?"

"Absolutely not!" Aziraphale huffed. "I'm not arming you with something to kill a demon. I have some blessed crosses back at the shop, though. That'll teach anyone from Below who crosses a friend of mine- oh dear, pun unintended- well, **anyway**. They won't bother you for a long while after, that's for sure. Crowley cursed the bases so you can hold them safely. And fair warning, I've armed a few angels with them, in reverse."

Purson spat out a few roaches, he'd laughed so hard. "If they're friends 'o yers'n Crowley's, I got notthin't' worry 'bout. Now, let's work on **yer **problem, eh?"

* * *

Aziraphale sighed as he mopped up the mess on the cafeteria floor the human way.

"Could jus' miracle it," Purson commented from the doorframe.

"I need to clear my head," Aziraphale grunted, twisting the mop in his fingers. "The first order of business is this snake. They just… leave a poor creature behind! We have to bring it somewhere."

Purson flicked his fingers, materializing a cell phone.

"Isn't that your way home?" Aziraphale yelped.

"Naw, just nicked this one offa Cho."

"Chochinbi or Chochinobake?" Aziraphale asked, remembering the pair of fire-demon twins Purson roomed with in Nara, Japan. Why Purson even bothered to give himself the ridiculous not-really-Cockney accent when speaking English was beyond Aziraphale; he supposed it was because the demon spoke Kansai-dialect Japanese and wanted to mimic it in other tongues.

"You know well as I do, one thing Cho owns, 'ey both do. 'Ey won't miss it, yet a'least. Lesse, there's a pet store a kilometer from here. 'N it looks like there was a break'n a few hours 'go."

"Holy my behind. Self-righteous, more like," Aziraphale complained to the snake. "We'll get you back where you belong." With a flick of his wrist, the mop and bucket were neatly returned to the janitorial closet. "I suppose we should walk."

"Wot, yer wings broken?"

"I was more worried about yours."

Purson rolled his shoulders, and two pairs of ruby-black wings folded outwards. "Naw, work just fine, these. I was, er, one'a the early adopters, as it were. I jumped, wasn't thrown or nothin'."

"You were a **Cherub**." Aziraphale stared, dumbstruck at his four wings. "What are you on Earth doing grunt-work for? Shouldn't you be a Prince, like Beelzebub or Asmodeus?"

"Bah, who likes desk jobs?"

"Touché," Aziraphale agreed, effortlessly picking up the snake terrarium as he followed Purson out into the night.

* * *

"No, no, let me," Aziraphale said, sternly. With a quick snap, the broken glass door was good as new. "Fixing a break-in is more Upstairs than Down. I don't want something like this showing up on your record."

"Eh, a spot 'o disobedience 'ere 'n there's no skin off me back. Wot'll they do, throw me in the Pit? I made 'em pits when I were young 'n angry."

Aziraphale almost choked on his own spit as he processed it.

"Thank you for not breathing hellfire on me. Or my shop," Aziraphale sputtered out as he returned the snake back to its space on the rack in the lizard area of the store.

"'N thank you for not smitin' me on sight," Purson replied with a gurgle of a laugh, slapping the angel between his wingblades. "C'mon, let's go find those kids."

* * *

"This feels incredibly wrong," Aziraphale hissed, bouncing on a tree branch. He'd followed the gut-churning feelings of one of the people who had summoned him to a cul de sac in wherever corner of sprawling suburban Texas they'd ended up in. "Wish I could call Izzy here to talk some sense into these humans. It is **entirely **possible to be Christian and not a bigoted… whatever-they-are. It's right in the name, for His sake. **Christ**-like."

"Met 'im once, nice enough bloke," Purson said with a shrug. "Was a monster of a child though. He once killed a kid in his village 'n then brought him back to life just because he'd get in trouble."

Aziraphale shuddered at that. "Yes, I do recall he was a devil of a child. Almost thought he might have been the Anti- **well**. Anti-**him**, I suppose. I think he had too much unchecked heavenly influence at the time."

"You goinna go in?" Purson asked.

"I could bless the child from here, I can see him sleeping," Aziraphale sighed. "But I smell salt. I think he's been crying."

"You gonna chat?"

"Well, I'm not sure I can do much worse. I also know the minute I say that, I muck it up further."

"Break a leg then, 'eh?" Purson pushed Aziraphale forward, sending him down two stories to crash, cursing loudly. "Can't be worse now, yeh?"

"You didn't have to actually… ugh… break my leg!" Aziraphale pulled himself up, healing the fracture and miracling off the dirt from his robes.

"Demon!" Purson shouted from the treetop, mantling his wings. "'S still my job, dove."

"D…**fuck**!"

"Dove?"

"That was **not **me," Aziraphale whined, flapping up to the treetop, as both demon and angel slowly turned toward the bedroom window.

"**Bollocks**."

The window slammed open as a wiry teen in a loose pajama shirt and boxers stared dumbstruck at the unlikely pair- Purson in his polished expensive suit, a cockroach crawling out one ear, across his face, to dip into the other, four sharply pristine iridescent ruby wings haloing his form and Aziraphale, still in his robes, frowning with swan feathers all askew. The next thing Azirapahle realized was that a book was being chucked very fast at his face, and would have landed square **between** his eyes if he didn't have a few extra on his face left over from his ealier wrath.

"That smarts!" Aziraphale pouted, bleeding gold. "And think about the poor book's feelings, to boot, young man!"

"It's a Bible, think I give an eff about that?"

Aziraphale merely swooped down to retrieve the now battered Bible from the ground below, spine cracked and covered in a honey-smelling golden splatter. "Well, it's ruined now," Aziraphale said, sullenly. "But given what your mother's been reading into it, I'm willing to accept that." He blinked the blood out of his three extra forehead eyes, and was calm enough to will one of them away.

"Wait… you're Aziraphale, aren't you? I've been following OccultArtsLiverpool for a couple months now." The boy cautiously leaned over the windowsill. "My… mom summoned you?! I've been trying for like two months."

Aziraphale wiggled his nose in annoyance. Azirapahle must not have been truly needed by the kid until his mother had it in her to step in. "Harumph! Your mother thinks I'm a demon, she does. Admittedly, I let a bit of the good old angelic wrath get the better of me. I was worried she would take it out on you, so I've come to fix what I can."

"Well, unless you can blow up a conversion therapy camp, I'm fucked." The teen sighed. "Getting shipped off this weekend, so thanks for that."

Aziraphale stroked his chin a moment. "Blowing things up might be just out of my wheelhouse, yes, but I think I can call in a few favors."

"Do I call in the twins, mun?"

Aziraphale grinned conspiratorially. "Blowing up a teen camp for Christians sound like at least two commendations from Hell, doesn't it? And call Crowley while you're at it."

The teen stared dumbstruck between the two of them. "I thought you were an angel."

"Oh, my boy, **I **am. Doesn't mean I don't have good friends in er, low places, as it were. Now. What inane women has your mother been hanging around? I have a few other houses to attend to before sunrise."

* * *

Crowley whooped out as he flung himself from the phone connection back to his Mayfair flat, Aziraphale just behind. It wasn't even midafternoon and he'd helped blow up a Christian sleepaway camp (whose residents, both the innocent teens and the counselors, were miraculously all out on the lake boats that early pre-dawn morning, though the counselor's things and vehicles were all toast while the campers personal effects were strangely spared from the flames), took the air out of several oversized SUVs, desecrated a megachurch, and just generally getting to revel in sanctioned mayhem with a few good friends for several hours.

He hadn't felt so good in ages.

Aziraphale tumbled behind, now mostly back to normal. Only three extra eyes- one on his forehead, one on an ankle, and one in his right palm, stubbornly persisted, and he clutched the bloody, battered Bible as he righted himself.

"Thing's been desecrated, angel, toss it," Crowley admonished.

"Angel blood is hardly- oh. **Oh**. God's name in vain," Aziraphale moaned. Now that he was away from the whole affair, he had a chance to feel the book a little better. "This had been used by that woman as a means of hate to speak on behalf of Her Almighty. Not love."

"You can't keep that in your shop."

"I dare say I can't. Crowley, if you please? Oh, and could I borrow this?" Aziraphale picked up Crowley's cell phone off the floor.

"What, you actually going to get with the last quarter-century?"

"I'm going to send Rick a photograph of you burning that thing. Our antics will likely make American news this evening."

"Aziraphale, there's a thing called a selfie stick," Crowley sighed, pulling one from his pocket. Given the tightness of his jeans, it couldn't have been there a moment earlier. He affixed it to his phone, and hid his face with the book, angling it until there was nothing but an unadorned concrete wall behind. "I'll scrub the location metadata before sending it," Crowley huffed. "Don't need some hacker backtracking where I sleep. Oh, angel. Do me a favor."

"Yes, dear?"

"Stand behind me and spread your wings." Aziraphale shuffled behind Crowley and followed his increasingly exasperated commands. Eventually, the demon was satisfied, held the stick aloft, and set the book on fire in blue-white flame.

He left behind not even a spot of ash. "How's this?"

Aziraphale peered. From the forced perspective of the shot, he wasn't visible, only his white wings on Crowley's body.

"I'm removing location metadata, but preserving the photo. Anyone who knows Photoshop's going to discover this was never doctored," Crowley beamed. "Rick's the kid with the summoning blog, isn't he?"

"Yes, he and his brother were my first assignment."

"**Those **two," Crowley beamed. "Okay, now I see where you're coming from." Crowley quickly ticked away at his device, letting Aziraphale see what he typed.

"Couldn't say it better myself, dear. Though I'm not sure how my **actual **boss will react."

"It's not like you're getting a **performance review**, angel."

"I suppose not. Send it."

* * *

**HERE'S A NEW ONE FOR YOUR INSTA, DIPSHIT. WE ANGELS ARE ALWAYS WATCHING. THAT STUFF IN SOUTH TEXAS? US. USE THAT BOOK FOR HATE, AND THIS'LL BE YOU NEXT. FEEL FREE TO SHOVE THIS ON YOUR FEED; PIC IS ON THE HOUSE.**

**-AZ'S BOSS.**


End file.
